Saved, By the Grace of Southern Charm
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU. Castiel is off to the backwoods of almost the middle of nowhere to meet his boyfriend Sam's brother. He's heard all Sam's stories about his former life as a trailer dwelling, white trash kid, and is really not looking forward to spending a night there, alone with a hunting obsessed hick, before Sam flies out to meet him. His worries are not unfounded. Features some S9 peeps.
1. Chapter 1

When the car makes a sound like a garbage disposal full of gravel, and slowly drifts to a stop on the narrow, dusty road, Castiel rests his head on the steering wheel, and whispers 'fuck' at his knees.

His knees are shocked, because they're good, catholic knees.

He climbs out, lifts the hood and peers into the conglomeration of metal, plastic and rubber, before he remembers that he has no idea how a car works, and couldn't fix one even if he did. He has no tools, no practical skills, and no idea what he's looking at.

Up ahead, about thirty yards away, a sign reads 'Gas 2 Miles'. There are bullet holes in the sign.

He takes off his Armani suit jacket and folds it up, places it on the passenger seat of the rental car, and starts walking.

Two miles and thirty yards later, he arrives at the gas station, sweating, dusty, thirsty and pissed off. The gas station is a two pump place with a little shelter over a tiny, shed sized store, and there's an attendant in a greasy overall, unzipped to his waist, sitting on a lawn chair on the forecourt.

"Hello?" Castiel shields his eyes.

The guy is wearing fake aviator glasses, which reflect the dazzling sun. His bare chest is deeply tanned, and he's got a fifth of something whiskey-coloured balanced on one thigh.

Castiel really wishes he'd never seen 'The Hills have Eyes'. He needs to get Gabriel back for that.

"Hey," The guy tips the chair back down, so all four legs are on the ground, and stands up. "What're you walking around out here for?"

Usually Castiel would snipe about his stupid rental car, but, because he's already had a stressful drive, stressful flight out from New York, and hasn't had a call from Sam in about sixteen hours, he cuts to the chase. "My car broke down."

"Do you know what the problem was?"

"No."

The man sighs, lifts his overall back to his shoulders and zips up the front. The name embroidered on the front is 'Zeke'. "Alright, let me bring my truck around and we'll go take a look."

The truck is a redneck special, in that it is red, it has tools and beer cans all over it, and there's a hunting rifle slung between the seats.

Castiel climbs into it cautiously while Zeke finds gas containers and water bottles. It's very dusty, and he's a little worried about his suit. Not that he hasn't ruined it with sweat already. The sun is still beating down as Zeke climbs up into the truck and swings them around, headed back for the car.

He offers Castiel a soda, and Cas takes it gratefully, gulping it down.

"So, what kind of car is it?"

"I don't know...it's a hybrid, I think. I just rented it today."

"And it crapped out on you. Shouldn't trust that airport rental place. They screw you on gas prices for one thing."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"This your first time out here?"

"Yes."

"The suit kinda tipped me off. You look like an undertaker."

Castiel doesn't comment. He doesn't want to be rude, this guy is helping him, after all.

"How much is this going to cost?"

"Oh, the call out? Call it twenty bucks, if I can't fix it, I'll tow you back no charge. See how much the repairs'll cost, and then I'll send the bill to the rental place."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

They pull up at the place where Castiel's car breathed it's very last, and Zeke hops down with his tools. With the hood up he rattles around for a while, and Castiel watches from the side of the road.

"Well, it looks like there's a problem with the cooling system."

"Oh...what?"

"There isn't any. Coolant."

Castiel closes his eyes. "That's great."

"No problem, well, it wouldn't have been if you hadn't started driving her. There's quite a bit of damage from the overheating, it's melted..." he looks up and catches Castiel's look of incomprehension, "some important, plastic stuff."

"Super."

"I can tow you back."

Zeke hitches up the car and they transfer Castiel's bags to the truck. Castiel climbs back into the truck, on the way back Zeke flips the radio on.

"What brings you out here then?"

"I'm uh...visiting some family."

"Oh, that's cool. Unless someone died, did someone, die?"

"No," Castiel smiles a little, "and they're not my family."

"Ahh, girlfriend's parents?" Zeke slips him a sideways glance "boyfriend's parents?"

Castiel stiffens.

"It's not a big deal, really. OK, for some people round here it's like this whole century never happened. But I'm cool."

"OK, yes, my boyfriend's family."

"Got your 'meeting the parents' speech ready?"

"Actually his parents have both passed, it's just his brother I'm here to meet."

"Oh, really," Zeke fiddles with the radio again, searching for a station, "he live round here, I probably know him?"

"Probably not. He lives out in the middle of nowhere, in a trailer by a scrap yard? According to Sam, that's my boyfriend, he's kind of...white trash."

"No kidding?" Zeke rubs a hand up over his jaw. "Well, I'm sure you won't have to stay long, tiny trailer's not really the place for house guests."

"I hope not. From what Sam's told me..." Castiel huffs, "it's not going to be a fun weekend."

"Hopefully I can get your car fixed in no time," Zeke pulls up at the station and opens the truck door, "I'll just go get you some paperwork."

"Thanks." Castiel opens his door and slides out.

The door of the little store opens and a tall, broad guy comes out, wearing jeans and a black tee.

"Hey," Zeke waves, "you're late, asshole."

"Funny. Not like you had anything better to do." The guy looks at the truck, sees Castiel. "Who's that?"

"Some New Yorker with a crapped out rental."

"Figures. Want me to do that paperwork?"

"Sure."

The guy turns and goes back to the door, shouting over his shoulder, "Oh, and Dean? Wash those overalls before you put them back. I don't want to be walking around smelling like your sweat."

Castiel feels like he's just been thrown into a cage of tigers.

'Zeke' turns around and waves. "So...how about I give you ride out to my white trash trailer?"

For the second time, Castiel whispers, 'fuck' under his breath.

When Dean climbs into the truck again, Castiel can't look at him, but stares instead at the dashboard in front of him. He is such an idiot. Such a rude, condescending...jesus, he just shouldn't be allowed to talk.

Dean finds a rock station, winds down his window, and keeps his foot on the gas until the little station is a blur behind them.

"Sam's been talking a lot about you," Dean says, "I mean, we don't really talk much, not nowadays anyway, but every Sunday I get a call, and about 90% of that call is 'oh Cas is so smart' 'Cas is such a good lawyer' 'Cas knows everything about estate law and sushi and the situation in the middle east'. He glances sideways at Castiel, "Naturally I've been dying to meet you."

Castiel's neck is on fire with embarrassment. "Mr Winchester, I'm really sorry about before."

Dean snorts. "Dude, I live in a trailer. I work at a gas station and I don't even own my overalls, I have them on a time share basis – this is not the first time someone's called me white trash. It's not even the first time today. I pulled over in the truck this morning and some guy shouted at me from his mailbox. And he had like, four teeth and John Deere cap on." He reaches over and hits Castiel on the knee. "Besides, you're doing my baby brother up the ass, don't see how calling me a name can be any more offensive."

Castiel is fairly certain he's having a combination heart attack, seizure and stroke.

"We haven't...I mean, we're waiting."

Dean gives him a disbelieving look. "Seriously? For what, world peace?"

"For the right time."

"This right here? This is why he was a virgin 'till college," Dean shakes his head, "he told you about Jess, right?"

"His first girlfriend. Yes, he told me about her."

"He tell you that he proposed to her?"

As a matter of fact, he had neglected to mention that. "Yes."

"See, he's an honest guy, Sammy, never wants to let people down. That's why he's the good son."

He swerves onto a thin, rutted road, and carries on down it until they reach the corrugated iron fence of the scrap yard. Beyond the open gate, the road is fenced in with chain link, and along it, five large dogs are running and barking. Castiel winces, he hates dogs.

"They're not as bad as they look," Dean says, "OK, they are, but you're with me, so you get a pass. When'd Sam say he was coming down?"

"Tomorrow, he has a big case load at the moment. He's flying out early, the driving, so he should be in town by three."

"Providing his rental car doesn't explode."

"There is that."

Dean pulls up sharply in front of an aluminium trailer, with a slightly dropping porch and mailbox attached. A washing line is sunk into a concrete block out front, next to two lawn chairs, a folding table and a cooler. The trailer is quite large, though Castiel doesn't know enough about them to say where it's larger than average or simple run of the mill. It's the first trailer he's ever seen (outside of Gabriel's HoneyBooBoo obsession).

They get out and Castiel gets his bags, follows Dean onto the porch and into the too-hot interior of the trailer. There's a little living area with a kitchenette against the back wall, a door that is presumably to the bathroom, and an open door, through which he can see a tangled up bed and several piles of magazines.

He puts his bags down by the couch, which is built in and covered in cigarette burnt 70s fabric.

Dean settles down opposite him and regards him for a long moment.

"I guess you really like him, huh? Or you'd have run a mile already."

"I do like him a lot, yes." Castiel says, and feels himself warm all over, because he likes Sam, who's intelligent and sweet and respectful of his boundaries.

"Good. Big brother talk over, you want a beer?"

Castiel glances at the wall clock, which is shaped like a hula girl, with exaggerated breasts. "It's two in the afternoon."

"I've been drinking since nine," Dean shrugs, "So basically, I'm just offering you a chance to catch up."

"...could I just have a water?"

"Sure," Dean sighs, running off a glass from the tap and putting it down in front of him. "It's not fancy bottled crap."

"That's fine."

Dean watches him as he drinks.

"Just FYI Cas...if you ever call me white trash again, kidding aside I will hunt you through this junkyard. And then I'll skin you and turn you into a rug."

Castiel coughs, and water goes down into his lungs.

He has to spend a whole night, alone with this maniac, before Sam shows up tomorrow.

He's really starting to wish he'd brought anything more weapon-like than his manicure set.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel has never claimed to be good at social interactions. In fact he has actively gone out of his way to inform people ahead of time that he is terrible at meeting new people, or even being around people he's known for years.

He's pretty sure the moment he claims to be a 'people person' at least three people will jump up, point at him, and shout 'LIAR!'

So, for his first few hours at the trailer, he takes himself outside, where the sun is hot, but there's a bit of a breeze, takes out his iPad and tries to get some documents edited for work.

Dean is mercifully not a very attentive host. He stays in the trailer, and occasionally Castiel hears him muttering under his breath, clanging something, and swearing. Eventually Dean does come outside, dressed in jeans and a very old tshirt with 'Harvelle's Diner' printed on it.

"Dinner's a bust, so, I'm thinking we should go into town."

Castiel would really rather stay at the trailer, at least he's familiar with it now, and it's mostly quiet and deserted. "Are you sure dinner's not salvageable?"

Dean tilts his head like he's thinking hard. "Well, it caught fire, so I threw it out the window, and then poured a lot of water out after it...so yes, I'm guessing we can't save it. Also, the dogs might have gotten to it by now."

Castiel just looks at him.

"That was a joke, and you suck," Dean sighs, "I was fixing the sink. Do I look like I cook?" He jerks a thumb behind him. "Get in the truck."

Castiel gets in the truck.

Dean climbs up and they thunder off down the rutted road, where the sun is slowly coming down on their left, and dust leaps up around them.

"There's only one place to eat in town, and it's the bar. So it's very important for me to know that you can drive stick."

"Why?"

"Because you are my designated driver," Dean turns slightly and grins at him, "I already drove drunk one today, twice might be pushing it."

"Perhaps you should curb your drinking, if you think it's a problem."

Dean whistles. "Listen, Mr Upper East Side, don't start telling me what I should and should not do, because then I will go out of my way to screw with you, and, who knows where that might lead?"

Castiel cannot understand how Sam came to be as normal as he is, when his brother is clearly some kind of alcoholic sociopath.

They arrive at the bar, a single story brick building with a neon sign that just says 'Bar'. There are a few people just going in, wearing jeans and untucked shirts. Castiel wishes he'd changed.

Inside, there's a group of three men on a stage, strumming at guitars and producing some truly depressing music. Little tables at the side of the deserted 'dance floor' are occupied by men and women drinking beer from bottles and foaming glasses. Two girls are playing pool near the bar.

Feeling like he should try to make amends for his rudeness earlier, Castiel takes his wallet out of his pants pocket. "May I buy you a drink?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Smooth. Yeah, just whatever's on tap." He's already looking at the girls, so Castiel goes over to the bar and waits for a man with a mullet to come and serve him.

"May I have whatever's on tap, and a vodka with diet soda?"

There's a short, odd little pause, and the two guys on bar stools next to him just stare. Castiel feels like he's walked down the wrong street, and he's not wearing neutral gang colours.

Mullet-man prepares the two drinks and slides them over the bar, and Castiel pays.

"Just so you know, no guy around here drinks that stuff," Mullet says, sotto voiced.

Castiel picks up the glass, downs the contents, and sets it down on the bar.

"I'll take another."

When he turns around with his fresh drink and Dean's beer, Dean is leaning over a girl from behind, showing her how to shoot properly, but he's watching Castiel, a twist of a smile on his face.

Castiel raises his voice to carry to the pool table. "You just lost your driver."

What starts off as not wanting to bow to small town mentalities quickly gets out of hand, and Castiel loses track of the amount of vodka he's been drinking. This is bad for several reasons, firstly, he hasn't ever really been a big drinker, and his past year with Sam has dialled back even his limited alcohol consumption to almost nothing. Secondly, vodka makes him cranky.

He's sitting at a table with a man named Garth, and the bartender, whose name is Ash, playing a hand of Poker, when Garth drains his beer and shakes his head.

"You owe me ten bucks."

Ash glances over at the pool table, where two guys are playing, one of the girls from before is texting, the other is nowhere to be seen.

"Crap," Ash mutters, sliding a bill across the counter. "Coulda sworn it would've been the red head."

Castiel finishes his nth vodka soda and puts his cards down. "Royal flush."

Garth raises an eyebrow. "We're playing Go Fish."

Ash looks at Cas's cards. "Got any queens?"

It takes Castiel by surprise that he's almost having a good time. Even if his supposed host has left him on his own in a bar full of strangers, just so he can go off and screw around. Castiel prays that they're not in the truck, he doesn't want to have to sit on a soiled seat.

"I should be going home," he says, nonsensically, because home is his loft back in New York.

"He's not gonna be happy if you interrupt," Garth says.

Castiel shrugs. "He's not gonna be happy if I steal his truck either."

He gets up and goes out the front door, realising only when the night air hits him that he is very, very drunk. He looks towards the truck, which is unoccupied, thank God. But where the hell had Dean gone? He's supposed to be hosting. Castiel is pissed off about that, if he was having Dean stay over he'd have taken him out to see New York, made him one of his not-quite-good-but-ok pizzas and actually tried to entertain him.

He takes a deep breath.

Vodka equals crankiness, when would he learn?

A brunette, the girl from the pool table, wanders around the side of the building, grinning over her shoulder, and Dean comes out behind, still doing up his belt. Castiel glowers.

The girl goes back inside, and Dean walks over to him like he's got all the time in the world.

"Ready to get back?" he asks.

Castiel glares.

"What?"

"You are a very inconsiderate host," he finds himself saying, "in addition to being white trash."

Dean sets his jaw and glowers. "I'm gonna let that one go, because you're drunk, and you're not getting any."

Castiel grits his teeth, but gets into the truck when Dean does. Dean's driving is alright, and the tense silence surrounding them probably helps him to concentrate, but Castiel is still seething. He cannot wait for Sam to arrive tomorrow.

"Me either," Dean says, and Cas realises that he'd spoken aloud.

"How is it that he's so different?" Castiel says, "I mean...you're just..." he waves a hand, "but Sam, Sam's...great."

"I think it's something to do with his hair." Dean says, hands tight on the wheel.

"But he could have ended up just like you, and that wouldn't have been good." Castiel can feel his brain winding down, vodka makes him sleepy as hell.

"Just...shut your mouth, OK?" Dean says, "Do not make me punch you out the night before he gets here. That's all I need."

"Would you hit me?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Getting more likely every second."

"I've never actually been in a fight before."

"It wouldn't be a fight. I'd hit you, you'd go down, and I'd throw rocks at your unconscious body."

Castiel snorts, and Dean frowns at him. "You are a fucked up drunk."

"And so are you."

Dean squeezes the wheel tighter.

They pull up at the trailer and both get out of the truck. Dean gets to the door first and opens it, flips on a light and looks back at him.

"You know what? You're an ass – enjoy the coyotes."

And with that he slams the door shut.

Castiel stands in the yard, drunk, incredibly tired, and just stares at the door. He walks up to it and after a few seconds, knocks.

"Dean? I'm sorry...I'm just, drunk and, I'm sorry if I-"

A blast of Metallica assaults him through the aluminium, and he hammers on the door, but can barely hear the blows himself. He backs up, looks around at the darkness, and sees several pairs of reflecting green eyes on the other side of the fence. The dogs. Great.

He sits in one of the lawn chairs, and after a while he tips his head back and looks at the sky, where the stars shine so bright, without the orangey halo of light pollution of the city.

One of the dogs whines.

Castiel closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean wakes up early, kicks the sheet off and makes his way to the kitchen, still stretching as he reaches the little window that opens out on his yard. He's forgotten all about Castiel until he sees him lying on his lawn chairs, both pushed together into a kind of bed. He's only in the shirt and black pants he was wearing the previous day, and there's a chill mist clinging to the dirt outside.

Frank and Bobby are lying under the chairs, the two friendliest of his dogs, both mongrels with a lot of blood hound in them. Bobby wags his tail a little, seeing Dean at the window, Frank licks Castiel's hand, which is dangling towards the ground.

Dean rests his head against the window. Why does he always react before thinking?

He grabs his jeans from the couch, next to the beer he'd finished off as he listened to Castiel curse and knock on the door. He picks up the lumpy afghan from the couch and unlocks the door, goes out, and drapes it over Castiel, who is pale, covered in dew, and scrunched up like a stray. Castiel wraps his fingers in the edge of the blanket and makes a little noise at the back of his throat. Dean rolls his eyes, goes back into the trailer, and dumps a whole pack of bacon into a pan on the stove.

By the time he's got the bacon crisp, some coffee in cups, and toast buttered, Castiel is awake and has dragged himself inside to sit on the couch. Dean puts breakfast in front of him, and sits down in a chair opposite.

Castiel wraps his hands around the cup of coffee. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They sit in silence for a long time, and Dean doesn't care, because he's used to silence. Bobby and Frank are tussling in the yard, and he's got bacon, so the world's alright as far as he's concerned. He's not one for apologising. He's more used to not mentioning stuff, until everyone's fine again.

"I'm sorry about last night," Castiel says after a while. "I haven't been that drunk in a long time, and I was a...complete ass."

Dean looks at him, he doesn't really know a lot about Cas. He's a lawyer, Sam told him that. He went to Harvard, graduated with honours. Dean knows he's a public defender, and that Sam had met him on a case a year or so ago. But that's just his job, as far as Dean's concerned. He doesn't know what Cas likes, or what he does when he's not at work. He can't even picture him out of a suit.

They are not the same kind, and that's been more than painfully obvious since Cas wandered up to the gas station in a freaking Armani suit. He only knows it was Armani because he saw the label in the jacket.

He's Sam's type. As much as Sam has a type, considering he's never dated a guy before.

"It's not a big deal," he says, "I shouldn't have locked you out, but...look, Sam's gonna be here today, and, we can just get through this weekend and forget it ever happened, deal?"

Castiel nodded. "This is good," he forked up more bacon.

"Thanks," in an effort to keep conversation open, Dean adds, "I traded one of my deer for it, I've got kind of an agreement with the Mills', they have a farm just outside of town."

Castiel's eyes widen, just a little. But Dean knows what he's thinking. It is after all, the same thing that Sam thinks – that he's an NRA nut.

"You hunt?"

"A little, more lately," he looks at his plate, "I guess you don't really..."

"I have family who hunt, so, I've been out a few times, but...it's not really hunting so much as crouching in the brush, drinking coffee and pretending to be men."

Dean snorts. The corners of Castiel's mouth turn up.

"I've never actually shot anything though...except my sister, and that was an accident."

Dean just stares at him.

"It was an air rifle, she was fine."

Dean shrugs, picks up his coffee cup, "My first time out, with my Dad, I shot myself in the foot with a crossbow. He only let me hold it for about ten seconds."

Castiel winces. "Sam told me your father was an outdoorsman."

Well, yeah, that was one way to put it.

"He...was really into all that stuff. Hunting, fishing, camping, hiking. More my thing than Sam's."

Castiel nodded, and Dean wondered what Sam had been telling him. Was it all of it? Or had he given him the edited highlights?

"I was going to go out this morning, just for a walk, see what there is to see...you feel like coming with?" As much as he wants to be by himself, it would be rude, he knows, to not invite Cas along.

"That would be nice," Castiel looks down at himself. "Do you have any boots I can borrow? I'm afraid living in the city had drastically altered my ability to purchase sensible outdoor shoes."

"I'm sure I've got something," Dean wonders if he has any of his old boots around, back when he was younger and around Cas's height. The odds are good, he shares his Dad's inability to throw anything away. "I cranked up the water heater for you, figured you'd need it."

Castiel smiles again, that little, curled up cat smile. "Thank you."

"You haven't seen the shower yet."

"If you can fit, I can fit."

That's not what he meant, and he's betting Cas knows that, but Dean lets it go. If Castiel wants to pretend that Dean's trailer isn't the worst place he's ever seen, that's fine by him.

While Cas is in the shower, Dean stacks the dishes in the sink and goes out to feed the dogs. Frank and Bobby have been joined by the guard dogs, Raph and Mikey, and Gordon is growling at a squirrel in a tree, watched closely by Chuck, who's lying with his nose between his paws. He shakes out some food for them, does his dutiful master ear scratching routine, and puts the lawn chairs back in their places.

The morning sun is shining best it can off of the dusty, rusting cars and piles of sheet metal. He really should start making an effort to clear the place up. The piles of crap predate the trailer by about fifty years, and it's why he got the land so cheap. The place he and Sam grew up was back in the woods, and after his Dad died, well, Dean didn't see much point in staying out there. The trailer had been all he could afford, but it was his, and it didn't remind him of all the fights, and all the loss.

Castiel closed the door of the trailer and came out to stand beside him, hair wet, and breath coming in little white wisps.

Dean looked at him, and found he didn't have to imagine Castiel out of a suit, as he'd changed into jeans and a large, dark blue sweater.

"I'll get you some boots," Dean said, showing Cas round to the storage shed, where piles of hurricane lamps and sleeping bags warred for space with boxed canned goods and water purifying tablets. He dug out a pair of rubber boots that looked in almost serviceable condition, and watched as Castiel toed off his leather city shoes and slid them on. He seemed amused by the sight.

They walked a good way in silence. Through the woods behind the trailer, over land covered in thick grass and branches and dirt clods, all uneven. There was a little pond with a tree hanging over it, heavy with fungus, and the thick, dark mulch on the ground that stayed wet no matter how hot and dusty it got in town.

Dean didn't even realise they were nearing the cabin until they came upon it. The way had changed in the years since he'd last seen it. He'd been avoiding it, mostly because it was something from another time, another part of his life. But it was still there, in a little clearing with the well next to it. The door was gone, but the log walls were there, covered in struggling grass and moss.

"Is that a log cabin?" Castiel said, "who built it?"

"My Dad." It doesn't occur to him until after he says it that he could have lied. He walks up to the door and looks inside. No kids have made their way out here to mess with it, it's all the same as he left it – empty and plain, with only a wood shelf over the mantel, and two sets of carvings under the window to mark the fact that it was ever more than a storage shed. D.W S.W

He looks up at the roof, sees the crisscrossed beams still holding strong. He could move out here tomorrow if he wanted. His Dad was a good workman, no doubt about that.

The hatch in the floor is mostly covered by invading leaves, and Dean doesn't go to it, or point it out. Let Sam talk about that, it was his business to tell Castiel.

"You lived here?" Castiel looks around, "Sam said you grew up in Lawrence."

"That was until just after Mom died, after that we moved around a lot, stayed with some of Dad's friends, kinda did the roadtrip/homeless thing...then we moved here."

He's waiting for Castiel to say something, knowing that it'll feel like crap when he does.

"It's well made," is what he says, "I've never seen a real log cabin before, he did all this himself?"

Dean nodded. "I helped, a little, but I was only ten, so, yeah, pretty much all him."

He wants to sit down on the old puncheon floor and just remember, how it was back then, when the house smelt like fresh wood and it was all a big adventure. But he can't because as soon as he starts reminiscing, he'll have to remember.

"Shall we get back? Don't want to miss Sam."

Castiel nods and they start back towards the trailer.

It's about one when they reach the yard, and there's no sign of Sam, it's too early, so Dean makes sandwiches, and Castiel helps, even though Dean maintains that he's fine. They eat inside, and Castiel talks about his family, and how they went on this one camping trip when he was young, and they stayed in the tent for about a month. Which was pretty much the last time he did anything outdoorsy.

Dean doesn't feel the need to say much, but it's an interesting story, so he listens and eats his sandwich.

After lunch he goes outside with a beer and sits in sun, which has burnt up the mist and now streams down overhead, out of a cloudless sky.

Castiel gets out his fancy tablet and sits on the trailer steps, in the shade, doing something work related.

Three o'clock rolls around, then four. It's not until five that Dean starts to worry. At six, Cas's phone rings.

"Hello?" Castiel answers, glancing at Dean, he's worried too, Dean can tell. He relaxes and says, "Oh, hello Sam, we were getting worried."

He listens, and Dean knows what's coming because he gets it every year, Christmas, Thanksgiving and his birthday.

"I see," Castiel says, "no, of course I understand...it is very important, I hope you find a way to get to him...no, I'm fine, it's been nice actually, taking some time out from work,"

Dean raises an eyebrow at the tablet, Castiel sees and half smiles.

"We're keep each other company," he says, "take care of yourself, don't work too hard." He puts his phone away.

"Let me guess, Sam's got a big case?" Dean says.

Castiel nods. "He won't be out here for at least another few days. He's sorry."

Dean takes a sip of beer, of course he is. But not sorry to not be coming by the trailer.

"If it's inconvenient for you I can go to a hotel."

"Nearest hotel is about thirty miles away, and you don't have a car," Dean points out, "besides, we're 'keeping each other company' right?"

Castiel flushes.

"It's OK Cas, it's actually nice to have someone to talk to who doesn't constantly want liver snaps," Bobby barks from the opposite side of the fence. "Just because I said it doesn't mean you get one!"

Castiel huffs a laugh, and the tension of disappointment seems to leave him for a moment.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam looks at the cell phone on the desk in front of him. He is such an asshole.

There are piles of paperwork all around him, depositions and witness statements and crime scene photos, and he wants to get this guy, he really does, because no one should get away with the things in those pictures – but he also wants to be with Castiel, sitting out under the stars somewhere, drinking a latte and listening to the sound of nothing – no sirens, no phones, no faxes, no email notifications.

He rests his head in his hands for a moment.

"Hey, want another coffee?"

It's one of the other guys working on the case, an associate whose name he can't remember.

"Sure, you making it?"

"Actually, I'm going out to Starbucks, so...literally the sky's the limit."

Sam gets some money out of his wallet and slides it across the table. "The biggest frappe they can make, with cream, and whatever you want."

"Done." The guy stands up, stretches and cracks his spine. "Was that your friend on the phone?"

"My boyfriend."

"He waiting for you?"

"Actually yes, only he's about five hundred miles away, sharing a trailer with my brother."

He whistles. "Failed vacation?"

Sam shuffles some papers. "A family visit that I'm hoping to salvage, if I can get this mess sorted out in time." He sighs, "you ever just...want to be somewhere else so badly that you can't remember why you're doing what you're doing?"

The guy seems to think. "Once I almost dropped out of law school. I was really, really, embarrassingly into some guy and, well, he disappeared for a while, guess he went on a spring break type thing...and when he was gone for two months I thought about following him."

Sam looks at his cell again, God, he wants to just go, to get on a plane and get to Castiel so badly.

"Why didn't you?"

He shrugs. "Law school's expensive, I'd made a commitment...and, OK, the real reason is, if it's the real thing, I don't think time should matter. You might not see them for years, and then...they're back, and it's all still there, you know?"

Sam smiles a little. No matter how long he's away from Castiel, he's always glad to be back with him, to lie down on the couch with his head on Castiel's shoulder, and just listen to him talk about his day.

"Did you ever see him again, the guy?"

"Oh yeah," he nods, "all the time." He checks his wristwatch and sighs, "better get down to Starbucks, they close at ten. See you in a few."

"See you Luke."

Sam drags a pile of paperwork towards him, uncaps a yellow highlighter, rubs a hand across his eyes and tries to focus, even if he is thinking of Castiel's arms in his cashmere sweater, how good it feels to have them wrapped around him.

He wonders for the millionth time how Castiel is managing with Dean. He can barely imagine them meeting, and he's kind of hoping that Castiel has managed to find a hotel room. It's not that Dean is a bad guy, Sam loves him so much because he's a great brother, and that hasn't changed, in all the time they've been apart. But, they have been apart – and mostly that's his own fault, Sam knows that. He works too much, he cancels trips, he spends more time with Castiel, and before him, with the families of his girlfriends.

But, there's Dean's stuff in the way too.

Everything that happened in those last few days before Dad died...Sam still thinks about it. About that last fight, which wasn't even a fight. He'd gone to him in the hospital, sat by his bed, just looking at his Dad, who hated hospitals, hated being out of the woods even, and took his hand. He'd only just started to work it out himself then, it was before he'd met Castiel. And he'd said, "Dad, I don't know how to tell you this, and I don't want you to get upset, but I can't let this happen, and not tell you...that I think, I'm gay."

Dean, who'd been leaning against the wall, looking tired and grey and so skinny and worried that Sam almost hadn't recognised him, came over and squeezed his shoulder, and that's when their Dad said,

"Son...I think I need some time with this."

And that was the last thing he said, to Sam anyway.

Dean still won't talk about the last conversation he had with their Dad. So Sam figures it was about him, about how Dad couldn't handle it, and wanted Dean to try and straighten him out. And maybe that's why Dean is all tense around him now, how, on the few occasions he's actually made it to him for Christmas, out in that trailer that Dean still has for some reason, his brother can never quite look him in the eye.

Sam highlights a sentence that has no bearing on the case and presses the point of the pen hard into the paper. To be honest he's pissed at Dean, not about their Dad, if there's one thing his childhood taught him, it was that John was a law unto himself. No, he's pissed because Dean is living in some rusted ass trailer, in a scrap yard, working part time at a diner, and a gas station and who knew where else...and he didn't have to.

And he honestly couldn't understand why, but it felt like Dean was making a point out of it. Like he was accusing Sam of something with his own determined failure.

Maybe he'd been wrong, maybe Dean just had a problem with him being gay. But if he took that out on Castiel...Sam would never forgive him.

He flicks open his cell, and closes it again.

Luke comes back with too frappes and a stack of almost expired muffins, and they sit elbow to elbow, swapping depositions and circling statements and pointing out weak points in the defence, until Luke yawns so loudly that it makes Sam jump, and they pack up to go home.

"I hope you manage to get out there, see your family."

"Me too."

"Night Sam."

"Night Luke."

Sam goes down to the parking garage, gets into his car and drives all the way back to his apartment. Inside he lies down on his couch and tries to let go of the stress that's been stalking him at the office. The work stress starts to dissipate a little, but the family related anxiety is still there, has been there all his adult life.

He takes out his cell and calls Dean's number.

"I'm assuming this is a pocket dial, because, no way are you calling me."

"Dean." Sam rubs a hand over his face.

"Holy shit, it is actually you."

It strikes him that Dean is whispering, and Sam checks his clock, right, it's three am, Castiel is probably asleep in the trailer.

"How is he?"

"Cas?" Dean sighs and Sam closes his eyes, because he knows it's an asshole thing to do, ask after Castiel when he hasn't spoken to Dean in weeks, but, Castiel is his boyfriend. "He's fine Sam. I took him out to the woods, we saw the old cabin. Yesterday I took him to the bar."

Sam frowns. "Castiel doesn't drink."

Dean huffs a laugh. "He really, really does."

"And you took him out to the cabin? What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him jack shit, because it's your job to tell him." Dean is definitely pissed off, Sam can hear his accent getting thicker. "And if you're so bothered about him knowing about your family, why is he even here?"

"Sorry, I just...I wanted to do it at the right time, you know, explaining Dad to him."

Dean sighs. "I know."

"But he's OK?"

"Yeah, doing lots of work stuff."

Sam rolls his eyes. "He really needs to relax a little."

"You're telling me, it's like living with you again, only worse. He's the nerd king."

Sam snorts and Dean chooses that moment to say, "It's kinda sucky, that you're not down here with him. I think he's a little...I don't know, he seems sad."

"Sad?" Sam sits up, "did he say what about?"

"No. I just, think he misses you."

Sam's eyes blur. "I miss him too."

"'Course you do, you big fairy."

Sam's smile wobbles a bit, but it's still there.

"You can, you know, call me more," Dean says quietly, "I miss you."

"I know."

"But you're not going to call."

"Dean-"

"He didn't say anything about you Sammy, I told you. We just had a lame-ass talk about deer season coming up, and then he was gone."

Sam's heard it before, but he doesn't believe it.

Dean sighs. "I'll see you when you get out here I guess."

"Yeah."

"Bye Sam."

"Bye."

Dean closes the phone and rests it against his forehead.

Several hundred miles away, Sam is doing the same thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean slips out of his room and pads to the kitchen. On the couch, Castiel is huddled under blankets, reading from his tablet.

"I wake you up?"

"No, I haven't been to sleep yet," Castiel sets down his tablet and watches while Dean runs himself off a glass of water, he can feel his eyes on him.

"Was that Sam?"

Dean turns back to find him still staring. "Yeah. He was just checking we were getting along OK."

"And we are?"

"We're fine."

Castiel seems content with the answer, but he suddenly gets up and pats over the couch. He's sleeping in a pair of dark blue drawstring pants, and Dean has never seen lines ironed that crisp into pyjamas.

"This couch is a disaster area."

Dean looks at the lumps, cigarette burnt couch. It was a second hand trailer, he'd never bothered getting anything reupholstered, and during the months after his Dad passed, that couch had seen more action than a cheap motel in Vegas.

"Not comfy?"

"Not even slightly." Castiel sighed and looked at him over his shoulder. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to share the bed? Between the long flight and my night in the yard, I really need a good night's sleep."

Dean drained his glass and set it on the counter. "I gotta be up early tomorrow, for work."

"As long as you don't wake me up, that's fine," he picked up the edge of his blanket. "I'm not a one night stand, you don't have to make excuses."

He retreated to the bedroom and Dean stared at the empty couch, wondering what the hell he was doing letting Castiel into his bed. He had a thick not in his chest from talking to Sam, just like he always got from those calls. The calls that were so different to how they used to talk. He does not need to be in a room with another person, all night, where he can't stare at the ceiling, punch the mattress or mutter to the shadow of his Dad, that still follows him into the small hours.

Still, he goes back to the bedroom, because what can he do?

Castiel is stretched out on the right hand side of the mattress, so Dean can sleep on the left, where he usually does. It's a crappy bedroom, and he's a bit embarrassed about the magazines everywhere, the clothes hung all over the small rack in the corner. His dirty shoes are kicked half under the bed, the sheets on which he remembers changing about a week, maybe two weeks, ago. The only light is from the lamp balanced on a chair next to his side of the bed.

He kind of hates Castiel for making him feel ashamed of it.

Castiel leans up on an elbow and looks at him as he goes over to the pile of clothes and pulls out a pair of cotton pants. He takes them to the bathroom and changes, comes back and tosses his boxers into the hamper.

"You didn't have to, it doesn't bother me."

Dean shrugs, and knows from Castiel's silence that he's taken it the wrong way. He thinks Dean's uncomfortable sharing a bed with a gay guy. Well, he can think whatever he wants. Dean doesn't give a crap.

He clicks the light out without saying anything, rolls onto his side, away from Castiel, and closes his eyes.

There's quiet for a long time, long enough that he starts to think he's gotten lucky, and Castiel really has just fallen asleep.

"You must miss him a lot," Castiel says quietly.

"You remember that thing about me getting up early, right?" Dean mutters, "I need to get some sleep."

But after a minute he says, "Yeah. I do."

"Sorry, for bringing it up."

"S'ok," Dean buries his face in the scratchy pillow, "It's just how things are, no point getting all Dr Phil about it." Only, it hasn't always been that way. Back before Dad died it had been different, him and Sam had been about as close as two people could get, more like twins than brothers born years apart. Even after Sam went off to college, to Stanford, and Dean...well, after Dean had gone off too.

He almost jumps out of his skin when Castiel's hand touches his left arm, just lies there on the skin, five points of heat and the whisper of his palm. Then it's gone.

"I didn't mean to make things difficult for you, by being here."

Dean sighs. "Things were already difficult Cas, you're a little late to the party."

Then there's silence again, and no matter how hard Dean wishes it would, that hand doesn't come back.

He might as well be alone.

The next thing that registers with him, after the endless silence, is the shriek of his alarm clock. Dean throws himself out of bed and onto the floor, grabs the clock and snaps the switch to 'off' so hard he's worried he might have broken it. He checks the time. Shit. Woke up on the second alarm, twenty minutes late.

He gets up, strips off his sleeping pants, grabs the t-shirt with Ellen's logo on it, one of his new ones, and finds clean underwear and jeans. He's just trying to yank on socks when he turns around and finds Castiel staring at him.

He really needs to stop forgetting that he has a guest.

"Gotta get to work, late."

Castiel pushes the blankets aside and gets up. "Coffee?"

"No time." He hurries to the bathroom, gargles some mouthwash, slaps some water over his face and then sticks his head out of the door.

"Get yourself breakfast, I'll be back late so, don't wait up."

He's already rushing out the door, car keys, wallet, boots. The door bangs shut, and he's already at the truck, climbing up, engine on, out of the yard with the dogs howling at the crack of exhaust in the still air.

He cranks down the window.

"And feed the dogs! If you've got a minute!"

He doesn't wait for a reply. Ellen is going to kill him.

Unfortunately, despite his arriving at work almost an hour late, and not looking particularly fresh or well rested, Ellen doesn't fire him or murder him on the spot. Instead she lets an eight hour shift at the diner take its toll.

The diner is not in Dean's town, it's in the next town over, slightly larger, with a Wal-Mart and single bus that passes through twice a day. It's a crappy little place really, all plastic tables and burnt grease, but it's a change from the garage, if only because he's inside, slinging fries into oil, rather than outside, filling engines with it.

Dean's job is a combination under-chef, waiter and counter staff. He also does dishes and sweeps up, because Ellen's daughter Jo decided to follow in her Dad's footsteps and become a cop in the city.

"You speak to Sam lately?" Ellen asks, an hour before closing. It's the only thing she's said all day that wasn't an order or an extra job.

"Last night." Dean carries on filling salt shakers, which, really, he can do with his eyes closed.

"Thought so. Next time, just don't come in. You're no use when you're fighting with him."

"I didn't say we were fighting."

"These days, you two talking means you two fighting."

"We were just talking about him coming out to take responsibility for his boyfriend." Dean sets down the coffee pot he's using to pour salt, and starts screwing up shakers. "I've got him staying at my trailer."

Ellen whistles. "Your brother is a very trusting boy."

Dean glares. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that while I might spend 24 hours a day in this diner, I do still hear things. Things about a certain engineer at a certain bar in a certain town."

Dean keeps his shoulders from stiffening and sets the shaker he's holding aside. "And who's that?"

"Hon...if you want to talk about it."

He turns and gives her a smile. "You can't go around listening to gossip."

She gives him a long, hard look.

"You just watch out for yourself."

Dean goes back to work. He doesn't need telling, it's what he's been doing for the last few years. Still, the knowledge that he's been seen, that someone knows, chafes almost as much as Ellen calling him an engineer.

She doesn't approach the subject again, just hands over his tips for that day (a whole three dollars, he's really hit the big time) and warns him not to be late again. He goes back to his truck, stuffs the three bucks into the glove box and starts the long drive home.

The trailer's dark when he pulls up, well after eleven. The dogs whuff softly as he gets out of the truck, but they recognise him and got back to pacing the fence. Dean lets himself in, not wanting to turn the lights on he toes off his boots and waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

There's a white thing on the counter, which turns out to be a small blob of mashed potatoes on a plate, next to a grilled steak. He stares at it for a long time, then picks it up and puts it in the fridge. He's not hungry, but he's already looking forward to eating that for breakfast. He had no idea Castiel could cook, let alone cook in his tiny trailer.

He creeps down the hallway, lets himself into his bedroom and sees the grey shape of Castiel sleeping on the right side. Shucking off his clothes, he slides into bed wearing his underwear, and sighs as his aching back and feet make contact with the warm, soft bed.

Looking at his side of the room, he notices that a stack of magazines has become two smaller stacks, but he's too tired to make sense of it, so he closes his eyes, and after a few moments he falls asleep.

Neither he, nor Castiel is aware of it when Dean rolls onto his back, one arm flung out towards Castiel. They're deep in their respective dreams when Castiel rolls closer to the weight on Dean's side of the bed and puts his arm across his bare stomach.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean wakes with a sharp inhalation, like he's taking in the morning in the air, letting it circulate his brain. He opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling, feeling his whole body sinking loosely into the mattress. He can't actually remember ever feeling this relaxed.

Turning his head to one side he sees Castiel, face squished into the other pillow, hands tucked up under his chest, like he's a small animal with a secret. He can't help the light laugh that spills out of him.

Castiel turns and opens one eye. "There had better be coffee."

"There will be," Dean swings his legs out of bed and pats the curve of Castiel's back, "get your ass out of bed, I might even make you breakfast."

In the kitchenette he remembers the plate of steak and potatoes that Castiel'd left for him. He slips it into the microwave, then changes his mind – good food deserves proper cooking. In a pan he reheats the steak and fries the mashed potatoes. The coffee is on and he's scrambling eggs by the time Castiel surfaces, his shirt open over his boxers.

"That couch needs to be burned," he mutters.

"Least I let you in the bed."

"True, good luck keeping me out of it tonight." He looks around at the kitchen, "Anything I can do?"

"Got it mostly under control, I am after all a seasoned professional," he catches Castiel's look and grins, "I work in a diner, that's where I was yesterday."

"Really?" Castiel watches him as he deftly slides half a steak and the potatoes onto two plates, followed by the eggs.

"Thanks for making dinner but the way, I was too tired to eat, sorry."

"No problem," Castiel takes a plate and sits down. "So...the garage and the diner, that's where you work?"

"Mmmmhmmm," Dean says, sitting down and shaking pepper over his eggs.

"Is that difficult?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, it's a real head scratcher frying eggs. The garage is a little different, but, we don't get many real accidents or breakdowns."

"I meant, with your background." Castiel says.

Dean just looks at him, eyes narrowing a little. Castiel looks completely guileless, but what does he know?

"My what?"

"Your degree." Castiel says, "I saw it while I was in your room yesterday, I was trying to find a magazine to read, something not work related."

He remembers the split pile of magazines, so that's where it had ended up. Shit.

He shrugs, trying to get the tension out of his shoulders. "Just a piece of paper."

"A piece of paper that says you have a Master's in Engineering."

Dean doesn't look up, just cuts steak and chews. Castiel doesn't say anything for a moment, then;

"Sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Dean shrugs. "I just don't talk about it, it doesn't matter."

"OK."

Dean sighs, sets his knife and fork down. "So, I have to be at the garage in about an hour, are you OK amusing yourself again?"

"Yes." Castiel slides his knife and fork together and lays them down, "I'm sorry for touching your things, I won't go poking around."

"You can look at whatever you want," Dean says, "like I said, it doesn't matter."

They clear up breakfast in silence, and Dean takes a shower and gets dressed. All the time he's cursing his carelessness, he should have worked harder to hide certain things before Castiel showed up, though he'd thought it was only for one night. What else had Castiel seen? He tried to remember as he slipped his boots on. No, he'd locked the top drawer in his room, and that was where he kept his porn, and everything related to it.

He's all the way outside, driving towards the main road when he starts wondering what Castiel thinks of him. He has a degree, more than one, that's probably surprising, he thinks grimly. White trash in a trailer doesn't exactly scream 'first in my class at MIT' he grips the wheel hard, wondering if Sam ever calls him dumb, or if he's told Castiel about how he could have achieved something if he hadn't stayed in their home town.

He's annoyingly distracted at work, and he keeps dropping things while working on Cas's rental car. It makes Zeke shake his head and mutter under his breath, but Dean doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't want to talk to anyone today. He doesn't want to think about Sam either, but that isn't as easy.

Again and again his mind takes him back to that conversation they had when he quit his job and moved home to take care of Dad.

"You're doing a good thing Dean, but, you know, don't let it all drop, it'll be hard to get back into it if you lose your contacts."

"I'm not going back."

They'd been in the cabin, Dean boiling the little kettle at the fireplace, their Dad asleep in his bed, back when they hadn't needed the hospital, where John was still strong enough to insist on staying home.

Sam had left off his suit for once, had on an old shirt of his, and some jeans.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm staying here."

"But, you can't – Dean you've got a great job, you're paying off your student loans..."

Dean poured water into mugs and added instant coffee. "And I don't want it. Any of it, look, it's what you wanted OK? You wanted to get out here, and make it in the city and join a top law firm. I never wanted out, I never had anything to prove."

Sam had swallowed, his eyes all big and hurt, the way he got when he was trying to understand him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, I'm not ashamed of where I come from." Silence has broken around them like the cold wind around the cabin, whistling through the tiny gaps in its chinked walls.

"I'm not ashamed."

"Oh really?" Dean had thumped he kettle down, "I saw your firm bio, never knew you were from Lawrence."

"We are from Lawrence."

"You were a baby when we left there!" Dean hisses, glancing at John, "you're from here, right, here. And that is your Dad, and I am your brother, and this is where you grew up."

"I'm not hiding who I am," Sam insisted, "you're the one with a massive problem about it."

Dean had just glared at him, daring him.

"You can't take working for that firm, and knowing that you're from here. You think they're looking down on you, that they don't think you're smart enough," Sam says quietly, "tell me that's not why you quit. Tell me it's not because you felt like you didn't fit."

And Dean had yelled at him, and it had woken his Dad, and they'd stopped fighting, to take care of him.

Only, now it felt like they'd been fighting for years, and it was the same fight.

Because Dean had never fit in at the engineering firm, he'd designed new parts and attended meetings in a suit, and he'd had his own office and an assistant. And sitting in his ergonomic leather chair, twenty floors up from the city streets, he'd always been waiting to catch someone sniggering behind his back – hiding a smile from the trailer trash guy who didn't know anything about classical music, or wine, or theatre, who didn't care about how hard a restaurant was to get in to, who didn't read newspapers, and who couldn't name all the countries in the middle east.

He was smart, brilliant, but he wasn't one of them. He'd never found one of them he liked, and for the years he'd worked there, he hadn't dated anyone, because he hadn't met anyone he was interested in, anyone who didn't make him feel like he was missing a whole part of his brain – the part that made him as educated as they were.

He set aside his tools and looked across the garage at Zeke. At least here he felt like he belonged. He could fix anything easily, he could talk to customers, to the people he worked with. Since he'd moved home he'd slept around, dated a lot of women, been happy. But sometimes he missed it, missed being smart.

He doesn't know why having Castiel around makes it even harder to keep it up – to keep pretending that he never left town, pretending that he doesn't have two degrees, and two awards for designing a self sustaining waste system for the Olympic fitness centre in New York.

It's not until he gets back to the trailer that evening, that he remembers something he definitely should have hidden. But it's such a small thing, he's sure Castiel won't find it.

But, it's the first thing he sees when he walks into the trailer. Castiel sitting at the table, with the journal in front of him.

Dean stops, frozen in the act of taking of his boots. Castiel looks up at him, and for a moment Dean can't place his expression, it's all twisted up and half in shadow, but after a moment, he realises. Castiel is devastated.

"I didn't mean to read it," he says, quietly. "I just...I saw it on the shelf and..."

Dean goes to the kitchen, gets out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and comes back to sit at the table. He pours some into a glass, slides it over to Castiel, who downs it in one without flinching.

"Guess you were going to find out eventually...for what it's worth, Sam was going to tell you, he's just...I don't know what he is, afraid or ashamed. Maybe both." He drains his own glass and pours them both another. "You've probably got questions so...if you want to ask me, that'd be OK. Sam might not like it if he finds out I talked, but...he's not here right now, and I am."

Castiel lays his hand on the book, then quickly removes it, as if it might bite him. "How did you...how did you stand it?"

Dean shrugs. "He was my Dad, and I was young, young enough to think it was an adventure, at least for a while." He sighs, take a gulp of his drink. "Actually, mostly it was because I believed him, I trusted him."

"But Sam..."

"Sam was a baby, he was barely four when we settled here, and, he doesn't remember Mom, he doesn't know how it used to be. But once we started going to school, and once he started reading about everything that was out there...he realised what he'd lost."

"And you didn't?"

Dean looks into his glass, remembers being a kid, being kept inside in a constant state of watchfulness, and then forced out with a rifle and a hunting knife, prowling the woods. And he remembers his Mom, the vague, light shape of her, her hand petting his hair.

"I always knew," he looks up and finds Castiel's eyes on him, and for a moment they just stare into each other, and he can feel how rattled Cas is. "He was Dad and I loved him. And he loved us."

"But he was..." Castiel shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't say-"

"He was insane," Dean says it for both of them, "but he was trying to do the right thing. And no matter what anyone says, he never hurt either of us."

He picks up the journal, flicks through the pages, old and familiar. Fishing, hunting, how not to be seen in the woods, poison in the water supply, nuclear bombs about to strike any day, electrical fires (a whole section on the deaths caused by electricity since its discovery – and Mom, always Mom there, circled, her newspaper article 'Electrical Fire Claims Mother of Two') good mushrooms and bad, how to survive nuclear winter, antibiotic resistant bacteria, global warming...it went on and on.

"He thought the world wasn't safe," Dean says finally, "he thought it was ending. It kinda is."

He takes a picture out of the back of the journal, faded and smeary from his Father's handling, and now his own. "This is her, my Mom."

Castiel takes the picture carefully, by the edges. "You look like her."

Dean shrugs. "No more than Sam." When Castiel's eyes find his again, he swallows, takes back the picture and puts it away. "I'm gonna go to bed, if you're OK waiting to talk about it."

Castiel nods. "Sure."

Dean goes to his room, having missed dinner, but not hungry in the slightest. He puts the journal back on the shelf where it belongs, and lies down in the dark. He doesn't think about his mother often, but when he does...she's like the bright flutter at the start of a roll of film, before the real images come. He barely remembers her, only her voice, the way she smelt.

When Castiel comes into the room, Dean doesn't know how long it's been, he lies down on the other side of the bed, stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers. They lie there, separate, for a long time, then Dean, eyes closed tightly, and feigning sleep, shifts over and lies close to Cas's side, head just beside his shoulder, there he can feel the warmth coming from him, feel that he's not alone.

Castiel's arms go around him, and Dean feels his warm, dry palm rubbing the back of his shirt.

He falls asleep like that, listening to Castiel's heart beating.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel stays awake for a long time, rubbing Dean's back in slow circles. He has never hurt this much for someone else, and it's surprising, because he barely knows Dean at all. He's worked on cases with people he felt less for, and had more contact with. But Dean is like a coal burning deep, deep down in the dark, and he's drawn Castiel in, with his quiet, secretive mix of anger and regret.

He feels like he's cheating, and maybe he is, as he lies in the dark and feels Dean's weight against his chest, all his muscle and tight, bound up shoulders relaxed into a sloppy bundle of sleeping limbs. He smells like sweat and fuel, and he's still wearing his clothes. Castiel touches his hair, spiking up and slightly rough to the touch, puts his hand on Dean's arm and feels the warm bulge of it. He's cheating on Sam just by being here, he knows that. And it's Sam's sorrow too, his history. But somehow Castiel can't connect it to him. Sam is confident, urban, his roots so well hidden that they might as well not exist.

Dean is messy by comparison, neither one thing nor the other, a thing of broken glass and metal and earth.

Inside his head he promises himself that tomorrow night he will be back on the couch. Or at least sticking to his side of the bed. He loves Sam. Closing his eyes, Castiel tries to remember how Sam feels when they sleep next to each other, the way he breathes in his sleep, his broad smile, his clumsiness when he's too tired after work. Sam, who respects his boundaries, who doesn't push for anything, not even sex.

Castiel frowns into the dark. Not that he wouldn't mind if he were to be a little more forthright there. Castiel might be profoundly shy when it comes to that sort of thing, he knows that, but it doesn't mean he doesn't like sex. He's just not very...sure of himself.

In his sleep, Dean moves closer to him, one arm tightening over his chest, he rubs his face against the front of Castiel's shirt and groans quietly.

Castiel looks down at him with difficulty. Still fast asleep. He settles onto the pillow and tries to relax himself towards unconsciousness. He really needs a good night's sleep.

He wakes periodically throughout the night, each time he feels Dean against him, heavy and relaxed with sleep.

In the morning, Castiel extricates himself with difficulty and pads to the bathroom for a shower. The compactness of the trailer's limited facilities bothers him a lot, but it's serviceable. When he emerges, still mostly wet and clutching a towel around himself, Dean is just sitting up in bed, rubbing his face and running his fingers through his hair.

"Morning," he says with his eyes screwed up, "Shit, what time is it?"

Castiel glances at the clock on the floor. "Just gone eight."

Dean flops back down onto the mattress with a groan.

"If you're going back to sleep, I'd suggest changing your clothes," Castiel says, hunting through his bag for clean underwear and a fresh shirt.

The mattress complains as Dean wriggles on it, before finally dragging himself out of bed.

"You're not a morning person," Castiel observes.

"Bite me." Dean mutters on his way to the kitchen. "It's my day off, I can sleep all I want."

Dean disappears outside to feed the dogs, who come bounding into the yard and mob him excitedly. Castiel watches through the window as Dean pats heads and scratches bellies, gently tugs ears and ruffles backs.

He puts the coffee on and checks his tablet. New emails from work, nineteen of them. One from Sam, just a quick 'I miss you' and some 'xs' Castiel looks at them fondly. He can't wait for Sam to come down to see him.

He's sitting at the table, frowning over an email when Dean comes back. He pours them both coffee and then takes down cereal and puts it on the table with milk and bowls. Casitel glances at the box of Lucky Charms.

"I believe those are for children."

Dean pours himself a heaping bowlful, drenches it in milk, and grins, as if hoping to provoke a reaction. Castiel tries to keep a smile from his face, but fails, so he quickly looks away.

"What's with the serious business face?" Dean asks a few minutes later.

"Work."

"What kind of work?"

Castiel looks up. "One of the cases I'm working on...it looks like the defendant's alibi didn't check out, so now the police want to know exactly where he was the night he was arrested."

"What's he supposed to have done?" Dean asks.

Castiel frowns.

"You don't have to tell me."

He heaves a sigh. "He's accused of raping a sixteen year old girl."

Dean drops his spoon into his cereal. "Fuck."

Castiel nods.

"Did he do it?"

"No. I don't think he did. He was in her neighbourhood at the time, he was seen in the same park where she was attacked, and he's been identified in a line up."

"Seems kinda like he did it."

Castiel looks sorrowful. "He was there seeing his boyfriend, who is incidentally ten years older than him, and married. The line up didn't prove anything except that in a ten second period of time, one African American teenage boy in an off brand hooded jacket, at night, looks like any other."

Dean is still watching him, levelly, considering.

"You can see why he doesn't want to give his real alibi." Castiel mutters, going back to his email.

"Is every case you have like this?" Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs. "Some are different, usually because the defendant is guilty. But...mostly they all have the same things in common, people in the wrong place at the wrong time – victims and the accused alike." He takes a sip of coffee, "Sam deals with the larger criminal cases, working for the state means he gets a lot of the really bad trials."

"I know, I read about them in the paper." Dean says, picking up his spoon and returning to his breakfast.

"All of them?"

He nods.

"I'm sure he appreciates your interest."

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. Castiel knows he's said something careless, but doesn't know how exactly.

"Why do you do it then, if all the cases are so messed up?" Dean asks, "You got some big reason to fight for the little guy?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. But I'm not a top lawyer, like Sam, I came out of law school not knowing what I wanted to do and, I thought I'd do some time with legal aid while I figured it out. This job just sort of happened."

"Not one of the head honchos at Harvard?"

Castiel snorts. "Not even one of the middling students. And I didn't get into Harvard." Dean looks a little surprised. "I'm not really...good at stressful situations, it makes exams difficult, it made getting a work placement difficult. When it comes down to it, I don't have the killer instinct...so I suppose I'm not a very good lawyer."

"Do you like it?"

Castiel thinks for a moment. "I think so. Sometimes it's hard to remember that this wasn't always my life. That I used to do things at the weekend that weren't work related. I try to do my best for all my cases."

Dean slides the cereal box over to him. "Have some sugar."

Castiel pours himself a bowl. What he said is true, he does try his best. But at the same time, he knows his best isn't good enough, not really. Whenever he loses a case that shouldn't even have been brought, or wins one that puts a criminal back on the street, he asks himself what the hell he's doing with his life. But doing his job is better than doing nothing.

"You know what you need, a hobby," Dean says, "something not work related, you can just kick back, have a beer, and go fishing."

"I hate fishing."

Dean shakes his head. "That's my hobby, what do you like?"

Castiel thinks hard, then shrugs. He doesn't like doing anything, except being quiet and comfortable in his apartment, in the big wing chair by the balcony. Where he look down at the street lights and police beacons, and up at the stars. He reads there, he sips his gin there.

"I just like being quiet."

He's all set for Dean to make fun of him, but instead the other man just looks at him strangely and then shrugs. "So find a place to be quiet, and just go there."

Castiel likes that idea. He rarely gets a chance to enjoy his quiet apartment, he gets calls from work constantly for one thing, and most evenings he speaks to Sam, either in person, or more often, via skype or telephone.

"If you don't mind though, I thought I'd go to the bar tonight," Dean says, "you can come, if you like."

"I'm good thanks," Castiel says, feeling a flicker of guilt. "I haven't made such an ass of myself in years."

Dean snorts. "Well, I was an ass too, and that's pretty much my setting 24/7."

"I'd noticed."

"Funny," Dean throws a dehydrated marshmallow at him. "But seriously, I need to get laid, especially if Sam is going to be here – I cannot be tense for that."

Castiel frowns. He'd known of course that things weren't great between the two of them, but was it really so bad that Dean was already dreading it?

"Why do you two not get on?" He finds himself asking.

"Ugh, let's not do this," Dean mutters, "we just...we're very different people. He's the big city lawyer kind...and I'm the white trash kind."

"With two degrees."

Dean shrugs. "It's a dusty piece of paper Cas, it doesn't mean shit."

But Castiel had seen his face when he'd first brought it up. That small flash of pride in his eyes. He'd seen how Dean looked about him, he wasn't stupid, he wasn't even average. He was smart.

"You're a very intelligent person Dean, I envy that, honestly," he finds himself saying.

A flush creeps up Dean's neck, and Castiel can't help staring at it, even as Dean avoids his eyes.

"I know what sounds ridiculous but...I was wrong about you, and I want you to know, I realize that."

The flush spreads, pink under Dean's tan, he turns away, waving Castiel off casually.

"I'm full of crap, and I really need to get some of the junk in the yard moved somewhere out of the way...so...I'm gonna go."

He fairly sprints from the trailer, and when Castiel gathers up the dishes and goes to the sink to wash them, he sees Dean outside in yesterday's clothes, wearing a thick pair of canvas gloves, hefting a car's bumper from one heap to another. Castiel can tell he's angry from the way he moves, but at what, he has no idea. Watching Dean work furiously to reorganise the scrap metal, Castiel tries to recall the feeling of Dean's arms around him, relaxed and warm. It's like he's a completely different kind of man when he's awake.

A tiny, buried part of him is already waiting for nightfall, then he remembers that Dean is going out, to meet a woman in a bar. It makes him feel bad, in a way he doesn't want to examine, and in a way that makes him feel worse because he's with Sam. He shouldn't care what Dean does.

He doesn't care. Not even a little part of him cares.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean doesn't relax until he's at the bar, with a beer in his hand.

He should probably be worried that these days it takes a few drinks before he can let go of his tension and stop thinking about Sam, work, his Dad, and all that other crap that follows him around. But worrying would mean doing something about it, something he's not even going to consider.

There aren't many people around yet, just Ash at the bar, Garth playing solitaire with an almost empty glass beside him, and what looks like alcoholic Santa crashed out in the corner. Still, it's barely dark. He's going to get lucky, eventually.

He sits down opposite Garth. They're not really friends, but they've been drinking in the same bar for years, which is almost the same thing. Dean doesn't really have friends – when he was younger it was because he hated being in school, and didn't want any of the other kids to talk about the cabin or his Dad. When he went to college he was all about the work, with sex as an extra. And when he finally got his big office and a two year contract, he'd not felt welcome, and had avoided everyone as much as possible.

He's never needed friends, because there'd always been Sam.

"Deal me in," he mutters, and Garth gathers the cards and starts to deal a hand.

"How's your house guest?"

Dean frowns, he didn't sit down to talk. "He's fine."

"He from New York, friend of Sam's?"

"Mmmhmm."

Garth nods. "He looked like he was. I wonder if he's got all those fancy kitchen things you see on TV."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"I've been wanting to get a waffle iron, you think he'd know the best kind?"

This is why Dean considers Garth a casual-drinking-acquaintance. He's not stupid, but he keeps things light and doesn't talk much about anything that really matters. Plus, and Dean is in no way ever going to say it, or even put the thought into words, Garth has a good heart. He doesn't get bitchy and he doesn't take sides, even though he knows them both, he's never once tried to get Dean to talk to his brother. He just lets things be.

Unlike certain house guests.

"You can come by and ask him, if you want," Dean says, emptying his pockets for change to place in the middle of the table, "he'd probably remember meeting you this time."

Garth grins, adding his own coins and a button to the pile. "He was pretty hammered. That button is ten by the way."

"We're not playing with buttons."

"It's a chip."

Dean takes a beer mat, rips it in two and puts half in the centre.

"That's two-fifty."

Garth sighs and takes his button back. "I haven't got any more on me."

"Business not good?"

Garth shrugs. "It'll pick up now it's summer. Lotta people are going to be interested in a river boat tour. I saw this thing on Oprah, boats are in this year. Like cake pops and the Kardashians."

Dean has no idea what a cake pop is, but it does sound good.

He goes easy on Garth and in the end folds at a loss. Garth takes his own change back, and slides Dean's back to him.

"Nice try, you coulda won."

Dean shrugs. "I was just passing the time."

He looks around the bar, it's filled up a little, there are some women by the bar, one in low riding jeans and an oversized shirt turns to look at him, and he gives her a smile. He's not really feeling himself, maybe it's the lack of beer, he's only had one.

He's kidding himself really, because he knows this feeling, has grown to dislike it, but understand it all the same.

He gets up and claps Garth on the shoulder, "See you around."

"See ya," Garth deals out his solitaire again.

Dean gets outside, takes a deep breath of cool night air, and climbs into his truck.

He hasn't been to the other bar in two months. Mostly it's because he hasn't needed too, he very rarely feels the need. It's also a little because he doesn't want to get caught, and if you do something you shouldn't often enough, you're going to get caught eventually.

Dean's been pushing his luck too long as is.

He wonders if his Dad suspected anything.

That's the other reason he tries not to go to the bar. He doesn't like stirring that crap up.

It's a regular looking bar maybe sixteen miles outside of the town south of his own. Just a one story brick building with a few fairy lights inside, nothing too mardi gras. There's a bar that sells beer as well as spirits and one or two cocktails. Pool table, old fashioned jukebox. There's also a back room, about the size of a communal shower, all concrete. It's a pretty good place to get a blow job if he doesn't feel like going back to some guy's place.

But tonight he's after the whole deal. Bed, clothes thrown on the floor, legs around his waist, some guy on his back moaning his name.

He gets out of the truck, shakes off the fleeting thought of Castiel, sleeping back at the trailer, and goes inside. It's dark, but pretty full. He finds a place to stand at the bar, gets a shot of whiskey. He's never nervous about women, but this...this freaks him out, worse than the idea of getting caught is the feeling that everyone around him knows already. They know exactly what he is, or they think they do. It makes him cold inside.

The bar tender puts a second shot in front of him, gestures up the bar to where a very hot guy is smiling at him. Dean downs the drink, orders two more, and makes his way up the bar.

The sooner they start, the better. He doesn't want to lose his nerve – experience has shown him that he can and will turn tail and run.

But as long as the drinks keep coming...he should be getting lucky by midnight.

Dean blurs out of sleep into a warm, dark holding place. There's skin on his, and it makes him ache all the way through. Lying in bed, someone beside him, it's one of those rare good days. He can smell skin and clean hair and slight sweat and some kind of aftershave. A guy. So rare. He's got his arm around him, this mystery guy, across Dean's back, warm and relaxed and heavy. Dean's head is resting on his stomach, flat and smooth as a sun warmed stone, trembling a little with each breath his mystery friend takes.

Lucky. One of the few areas in which he can claim that title.

Dean sighs, lets it out long and slow. It feels so good to be half awake, in bed, with some safe, comfortable guy. He's missed it. Knows why it became so hard but doesn't want to think about that, not now. He kisses the skin under his mouth. It's the texture of cream, smooth and faultless and delicious. A little breath catches rough in his throat. He kisses it again. So good. There's the sharp blade of a hip, he rubs his cheek against the warm hollow, runs his lips over the bone. A sleepy sound of surprised pleasure filters down to him.

He's so smooth. Dean noses lower, kisses his way to the edge of the crisp, silky hair. He breathes in the smell there, no longer innocent, sleepy morning, but musky and hopeful. God, he's missed that smell, the feeling of brushing his mouth over the crinkled hair to feel a hot, silken dick against his lips. It's a little hard, still sleepy, and Dean presses his lips to it, finds the smooth ridge of a vein and chases it with his tongue.

He worms his hand from underneath the soft, silky thigh it's been cradling, slips it just under where his mouth is occupied. He can feel the perfect, fine grained skin, the silky hair, the twitch of the muscle between his partner's legs. He strokes there with one finger, feels it twitch and tick. He takes his middle finger back, sucks it lazily, returns it and strokes gently, until the opening flickers a little, presses the tip of his finger gently, like it's sucking, just a little. Then he slowly presses in, and this time the moan from over him is low, and soft and deep.

He's in no rush, it's morning, he's warm and sleepy and still has his eyes closed, he wants something slow, and good, and soft. Something to drive home on, a pick me up. He crooks his finger as it goes deeper, rubs firmly, slowly, until he finds something that feels right, and another low groan confirms it. The legs on either side of him part a little, and Dean turns his face to the thigh on his left, and kisses it, buries his face against the skin and groans in the back of his throat. He's so hot and tight around his finger. Tight enough to be new and perfect. His mouth finds the crease between thigh and hip, and he kisses there.

He slides his finger in and out, rubbing, feeling the whole of the guy's body clenching, that desperate little ring of muscle trying to take him further, trembling at the root of his middle finger. He stops the long, slow thrusts and keeps his finger buried, rubbing fast and hard. The guy moans loud, and his arm leaves Dean's back, his hand covering Dean's where it's planted firmly in his ass, and he squeezes it, and groans.

Dean opens his eyes; spread before him, gloriously, insensibly aroused, is his brother's boyfriend.

He jerks his finger out of Castiel, hauls himself off the bed and throws himself back.

Kneeling on the floor, he can see, in the full light of late morning, Castiel's flushed chest, rising and falling erratically, the thick weight of his cock between his legs, wet and needy, like Cas's slick, bitten lips. His legs are shaking and his eyes are closed, long dark lashes against his skin, traces of wetness under them.

"Cas?" his voice comes out dry.

Castiel shakes his head slightly, dark hair curled and mussed on the pillow. His hands are clenched, one on his thigh, where a moment ago it had curled around Dean's own fingers, the other on his stomach.

"Castiel...I'm..."

"Can you...leave, please?" Castiel says, his voice rough and small.

Dean picks himself up, realising only then that the persistent ache in his gut is attached to the solid hard-on in his boxers. He leaves the bedroom and closes the door softly. He's unable to go further, still worried and shocked and blindsided. And then he hears Castiel whimper, and groan, and he knows that on the other side of the flimsy trailer door, Castiel is stripping his cock raw.

Dean's throat is thick, his balls ache and he's probably the worst human being alive, because he's listening to his brother's boyfriend come, and come hard, all over his sheets, with a pleading, wrung out moan, and a series of deep, wrecked little sounds, and he can imagine Castiel stroking his sensitive dick, his stimulated prostate throbbing inside him.

He's the worst person alive, he takes a step, then another, and goes to the living room. His jeans are there, and a shirt, so he pulls them on, willing his erection away as he sits down on the couch, and wishes to God that he still smoked.

He remembers, barely, the previous night. The bar, the _other _ bar, the guy who bought him drinks. They'd talked, they'd almost left together, only...what? What happened?

Dean remember standing with him by the guy's car, and saying...

"Actually, I've...sorry, dude, I changed my mind."

Fuck.

He hardly remembers that, and he drove home? He needs to get his fucking shit together. Sam was right, he's a mess.

Oh God. Sam.

After half an hour he goes back to the bedroom door and taps lightly.

"Cas?"

No answer.

"Hey...uh...Cas, I'm sorry, if you want anything or...I can go, so you can use the shower?"

Castiel opens the door, red eyed, wearing his shirt and pants from the previous evening. The hallway is narrow, and Dean walks back down it so Cas doesn't have to squeeze past him. Castiel goes straight to his bag, sitting on the floor, picks it up, and then takes his jacket, the one from that first day, off of the hook on the wall.

"Hey, Cas, don't-"

"Thank you, very much for allowing me to stay," Castiel says over him, not turning around, like he's been practicing this for the last thirty minutes. "I'm sorry to have taken advantage of your hospitality for so long, but, I'll be alright to get back to the airport myself."

"Your car is in the shop," Dean says, "and...Cas, please just talk to me. Can you look at me, at least?"

Castiel doesn't move, but, after a few seconds, he shakes his head slightly, and Dean knows, can feel it in the air, that Castiel daren't open his mouth, in case he loses it.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Dean says softly, "it was me, I...I got drunk and then I was sleepy and, I just forgot, OK? I forgot it was you and I must have...Jesus, I don't even know what happened to your underwear." Because when he'd woken up, he'd been wearing his shorts, but Cas had been naked and...God, so perfect.

"I..." Castiel's voice cracks. "I, took them off."

"Cas."

"It was too hot so I...just, took them off. You weren't here, I didn't think it'd matter. I didn't think, and, um...I'm really sorry. I won't, tell Sam. I promise...just, don't ask me to look at you, because I have never been so embarrassed, in my whole life."

"You don't have to be."

Castiel huffs, a sort of strained laugh. "Oh I think I do...and, I have to go, OK? I'm just...I need to get out of here."

Dean wants to say sorry again, but it's such a stupid little word, and what does it even mean? What can it mean right now? He wants to squeeze Cas's shoulder, to put his arm around him, to go back- rewind back to sleepy and soft and warm, and safe. To when it all seemed so right and good and perfect.

Instead he slips his hand into his pocket, takes out the keys, and drops them on the counter.

"You can take the truck."

Castiel takes the keys and carries his bag outside, where the dogs bark in that friendly way they do for him now, and then he hears the door open, and close, and the engine starts up, and gravel crunches, and the sounds get further off, away.

He listens for a long time after there's nothing to listen for.

In his bedroom the sheets are rumpled, they smell like the two of them, like sweat and skin and come and sleep.

Dean looks at them for a long time, and then he bundles them up, shoves them into a garbage bag and takes them outside. He looks to the road, like his truck might be coming back, but there's nothing, not even dust – it's all settled down now, like nothing ever went that way.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel stops the truck at the side of the road and leans his head against the steering wheel.

"Fuck," he whispers.

He leans back and punches the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

Sam is going to be so devastated. He's flying in tomorrow morning, and Castiel can imagine the look on his face as he checks his luggage, the small smile he as when he climbs into his rental car. The first vacation he's taken in ages, and he's on his way to see his boyfriend.

Castiel feels sick, but his body is still knocked out from his orgasm, the anxiety mixing poorly with the sedation that's trying to lull him into rest. He can see Sam's face when he tells him that he cheated. The way it crumples and hardens and grows distant.

He can say it was someone at the bar, maybe. Or someone from work, before he came down to visit.

From the journal, from what Dean has said and not said over the past few days, he knows their relationship can't handle another fault line. The whole thing will just crack and collapse. He can be the bad guy, he _is _the bad guy. He'd felt Dean on him, reaching inside of him, and he hadn't done anything to stop it. He'd just lain there, feeling him touch him, kiss him, lick him.

He shivers at the thought, squeezes his eyes shut and curses himself. Sam. He had to think about Sam.

Tomorrow he is going to break up with Sam and head back to the city. Dean can spend some time with his brother, they might even bond while Sam was venting about Castiel's betrayal. Everything would be fine.

He puts the truck in gear, heads along the road and out towards town. There's a motel somewhere in the next town over, wasn't that what Dean had said? He tries to remember. Maybe it was the town after that.

He can stop and ask, it'll be fine. He has all day, after all.

The problem is, in addition to not being a people person, Castiel has a mushroom's sense of direction. He circles town once, gets lost on the way to the next town over, loops back, goes the wrong way down a one way street, and is still not entirely sure where he is, when he finally gives up and goes to ask for directions.

He parks the truck in an alley and gets out, heads to the nearest place that looks open, and which happily turns out to be serving food.

The door jangles a small bell as he steps inside. The place is empty, and the clock on the wall tells him that it's gone two, so it seems everyone has had lunch and gone elsewhere. The little room full of tables and chairs smells like bacon and coffee.

"Two seconds Hun," comes a shout from behind the counter. Sugar shakers appear, one after the other, put up there by busy hands. Castiel goes over, takes them, and starts repatriating them to the tables where the shakers are absent or empty.

A dark head of hair appears over the counter, followed by an impressively alert and handsome face. As the woman stands up, Castiel notes her name tag, pinned to the olive green shirt she's wearing. Ellen.

"Thanks," she says, "what can I get you?"

Castiel goes through his pockets. He doesn't have much cash with him, he's used to putting everything on plastic.

"Do you take American Express?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Honey, no one takes American express. No one even has American express, haven't you heard of Visa?"

He pulls out a crumpled dollar bill, then another, followed by some change.

"Sit yourself down, I'll bring you the coffee and the special, on the house."

"I couldn't-"

"You're doing me a favour, I can't keep eating diner leftovers, or I'll have to be cut out of my bathroom and fork-lifted to the grave." She disappears into the kitchen, and Castiel sits down at the little table closest to the door. "Same goes for my illustrious chef, not that he's gracing me with his presence today."

"Oh, sorry about that," It's Castiel's instinct to apologise, he isn't good at expressing sympathy.

"Can't be helped, family crisis." A coffee maker grinds away, "Though if you ask me his whole family's been a crisis for about twenty years now."

She whisks back out, carrying a plate topped with pancakes and bacon, and a with a mug of coffee in her other hand.

"There you are honey."

"Thank you," Castiel holds out his money, embarrassed.

"I said it's on the house."

"Then consider it a tip."

She smirks and takes the notes and coins, dropping them into the tip jar on her way behind the counter. "You, are not from around here."

"No, I'm from New York."

"And with manners, I'm impressed. You up here on vacation?"

Castiel cuts a neat piece of pancake. He doesn't really feel hungry, but at the same time, he wants to feel the warm, solid weight of food in his stomach.

"Sort of. I was staying with my boyfriend's brother." He realises too late that Dean had warned him about people not being as accepting of his sexuality as he was. And if Dean was hiding his own bisexuality, there had to be a reason.

She apparently noticed his panic.

"Pssh, Honey there's more open minded people round here than up in New York, I'd bet on it. OK, we got our crack pots but, mostly we're all just normal people – we've got cable, we read the newspapers."

Castiel feels himself flush. "I didn't mean to seem...I mean, I don't judge." It isn't true of course, he remembers the vile things he said to Dean when they met, before he knew it was him. Before he knew him.

Only now he's starting to think he never got to know him at all.

"Then you're probably one of the only ones that doesn't," she says, "that's why so many people end up with a chip on their shoulder. Take my chef for example – smart as whip, raised by a guy who had his head on straight about fear, if nothing else, and he threw away a million dollar job because he couldn't take people thinking he was white trash." She picked up a ketchup bottle and wiped it clean, almost talking to herself as Castiel stared at her. "Hell, he's too scared to let anyone know for sure what they've already seen with their own eyes – that he likes chasing boys just as much as he likes chasing after miniskirts."

Castiel swallows the dry pancake. "Dean works here."

She smiles. "Thought so."

Taking a seat opposite him she gives him a hard look. "Now, I don't know what that idiot did, or didn't do, but he can't afford to lose anyone over it, not Sam, and not a friend – if that's what you are."

"I think I am."

"So, whatever happened, it needs to get fixed, fast, before Sam turns up and finds you've run off."

Castiel frowns. "I don't think I can go back."

"I'm not saying you have to," Ellen says, pushing her chair back and standing up. "But from the phone call I got this morning, Dean is not OK, so you should at least call him, and let him know that you're alright." She nodded towards the front door, "there's a payphone right outside, and I have his number here."

Ellen went to the tip jar and recovered his change, took a slip of paper from behind the cash register, came back and put it on the table.

"Do you know where there's a hotel?" he asks.

"Motel is just across town, you can't miss it."

Castiel takes the money, slides the coins together with his fingers. "Thank you."

Ellen shrugs. "Not a problem."

Castiel leaves the diner, goes around the corner and looks at the payphone. He slides the money in, and dials.

"Hello?"

"Dean?"

There's a long, long silence. Then he hears Dean swallow. "Cas? Are you OK?"

"Yes...I still have your truck, I..um...I got lost."

"Where are you?" he hears the couch creak as Dean stands up, the jingle of keys. "You need me to come get you?"

Castiel leans his head against the hot plastic of the payphone. "No, I'm fine, I think I can find my way."

"Oh...well," Dean sighs, "is there anything you want me to do?"

"No, It's...I just wanted to let you know I was OK. And, I'll bring the truck back tomorrow and leave it at the garage when I pick up my car."

"OK."

They stay on the line in a strange buzzing silence, and then Castiel swallows and rests a hand on the payphone.

"I have to go."

"OK. Sure...I'll...well, have a good flight."

Dean hangs up, and Castiel returns the phone to its cradle.

Tomorrow he's going to meet Sam, tell him that they need to break up, and go back to New York. He thinks of his apartment, of his comfortable chair overlooking the city, the mountain of work he has to do on the rape case. He has things he needs to do, and, truthfully...he'd known, for a little while, that things with Sam were never going to go anywhere. But it had been comfortable, sweet and comforting. He'd let it go on too long.

He went back to the truck, climbed in and sat looking at the alleyway through the windshield.

He's never been good at this stuff. Sex, people, relationships. He isn't built for it.

As he steers out of the alley and back on to the road, determined to find the hotel, it occurs to him that he'll probably never visit this place again. He'll never see Ellen at the diner, never go to the bar and drink vodka tonics, he'll never see the lonely little cabin in the woods again, or hear the dogs barking in the yard by the trailer.

He's never going to see Dean again.

His own frown is giving him a headache, and there's a horn honking behind him. Castiel realises that he's paused at an intersection. The light is green. He flicks on the blinker, turns and goes back the way he's come.

Halfway down the street he flicks the radio on, so he doesn't have to think.


	10. Chapter 10

He hasn't done this since high school.

'Course, back then it was the roof of the cabin. Back then it was a can of beer and a nudie magazine he'd ripped off from a store in town. Back when there was a store in town. Maybe if he'd stolen a little less there still would be.

Maybe a lot of things would be different.

Sitting on the roof of the trailer with a half bottle of whisky in his hand, he's watching the lights on the road a long way off. The occasional flash of white as the cars pass the garage.

He remembers taking things from that store all the time – porn, obviously, but also the cough medicine their Dad wouldn't buy, because he didn't trust the pharmaceutical companies, and anyway, they didn't have any money. The moon pies and oreos on Sam's birthday. His first pack of condoms. That box of soap powder so their clothes would stop smelling like rain water and the woods.

He misses Sam more than ever, a physical blow to his chest. How can they have gotten to this? To barely speaking?

Of course he knows, knows it was getting bad before Dad died, but that final moment, when Sam came out. When John turned to him after, when they were alone...that was the moment they started to split apart.

And now...now Cas was going to be the last thing that came between them. After this there wouldn't be a bond to break.

He's not going to tell Sam. Not the truth. But Dean'll know, and that'll be enough. He never wanted to be the person to take something from Sam. And now he has. Again.

He tries to remember when things were easy, when he was a kid with a Mom and Dad, when he lived in a house, ate kids cereal and played with the prizes, when he got tucked in at night. How did he get from that, all the way to this? How had he become this guy?

Taking a gulp from the whisky bottle, he turned his eyes back to the road and saw lights heading out his way. He heard the sound of a familiar engine, his heart almost stopping as he strained his ears to be certain.

Watching in the dark, he waited for the truck to pull into the yard and stop. The dogs, who'd been watching their master sitting up on the roof, wondering what was going on, smelt someone familiar and bolted for the truck, whuffing and leaping as Castiel climbed down, the light from the porch making him look very white.

Dean watched as he climbed up onto the porch and knocked on the door. He waited and eventually Castiel knocked again and called, 'Dean, are you there?'

Still he didn't say anything, couldn't. What the hell was he doing back? He'd thought he was never going to see the guy again, and he was back only a handful of hours later.

Castiel appeared in the yard again, looking back at the road.

"Fuck," he whispered, sitting down on the bottom step of the porch. Bobby came up and thumped his heavy tail against the dirt. Castiel ruffled his ears.

"I'm up here."

Castiel jumped and stood up, whirling around to look up at him.

"Were you hiding?" he says incredulously.

"No," Dean twists so he can see Castiel better, "I was up here and then you turned up. I thought you'd left something here."

Castiel frowns. "I have all my things."

"So why're you back?"

Castiel rolled his shoulders, hunching a little. Dean watched him closely, what was Castiel doing in his yard? After what they'd done, there wasn't anything to say. It was all over, for Cas and Sam, for Dean and his brother. Everything was fucked up enough already.

"I'm embarrassed," Castiel said, finally.

"Because you got lost like a clueless townie?"

Castiel sighed. "About everything. That's just who I am. I was embarrassed when I was at college, because I was the youngest guy there, and I didn't leave my room for the first three months. I lived on dried noodles that I made in my bathroom – I ended up being treated for scurvy."

Dean snorts. "That is classic."

Castiel ignores him, and in fact appears to be on something of a roll. "I was too embarrassed to talk to guys, I dated a classmate for two weeks before I could tell her I was gay – I had to do it by email. I never sat near her again. I get embarrassed when I have to order in restaurants, I can't call my own repair guy – and I haven't had sex in four years because I'm too embarrassed to be naked in front of someone else."

Dean blinks. "What? Seriously?"

Castiel nods.

"What was different four years ago?"

Castiel looks down for a second and mumbles.

"What?"

"I said," he takes a deep breath, "I was high."

Dean drops his bottle, and it slides over the curve at the edge of the trailer and breaks on the ground.

"You were high?"

Castiel nods, looking humiliated. "I was...experimenting. My brother recommended it, and I found that it did lower my inhibitions substantially."

"So what was the problem?"

"Smoking up also lowered my standards, my work ethic and my standards of personal presentation."

"Is that code for, 'I was kind of slut wearing a tie-dye t-shirt?'"

Castiel shifted from foot to foot. "It had a Buddha on it."

Dean can't help it, he laughs, it's a quick, sharp bark, but his chest feels like it's going to burst, and he laughs again, and pretty soon he's clinging on to the trailer for dear life, sucking down hair and feeling his belly start to ache.

He slides down over the edge of the trailer and lands on the ground easily. Castiel just looks at him.

"Dean..."

"That, is priceless. You, smoking pot? I love it," he grins, remembering better times, when he was in college. He hadn't done it much, just at parties, but man, those had been some interesting parties.

"Dean...I,"

"Let me guess, you never told Sam? I mean, he doesn't even think you drink, let alone..." he feels his smile die on his face. Sam. Fuck. He tucks his hands into his back pockets. "What're you doing here Cas?"

Castiel looks as if he is asking himself that exact question, and as if he'd like nothing more than to run off into the distance.

"I was awake, this morning." He swallows and takes a breath, letting it leave in a long, soft rush. "I let you...I wanted you, to..."

It's as if the bottom has dropped out of everything, and the sense is draining away. Castiel shifts in front of his eyes, from the creature known as 'Sam's Boyfriend' into 'Guy He Remembers Finger Fucking'. It's right there in front of him, the memory of that morning, and he can see that Castiel is thinking of it too.

"That was a mistake." Dean says, holding up a hand pushing at air.

"Dean...I get embarrassed all the time, but I am leaving for New York tomorrow, and I will never be coming back here. So, I spent the drive here, thinking about whether it would be worth, not asking you, if it meant I'd be embarrassed...and I think, nothing is worth sitting on that plane – wondering."

Dean lets his hand drop. Fuck. Fucking, Fuckety Fuck. This is happening. This is Castiel...Cas wants to...

"Ask me what?"

Castiel swallows, his eyes meeting Dean's, then skating away, then returning.

"I am asking you..." he glances to the trailer door, "will you take me inside?"

Two things hit him at once, a wave of skin tingling want that makes him suck in a breath of night air, and the thought that somewhere Sam is packing his bags to come and see his boyfriend, who is standing right across from him, asking Dean to fuck him.

He curls his hands into fists, like he can hold back the urge to touch, to feel.

"Sam," he says.

"I know." Castiel looks hopeless. "I know just...I'm a terrible person for even asking you, but, just say you want to."

He manages a nod.

Castiel sags in relief. "OK...then, I'll just...go."

He turns around, and he's walking back to the truck, putting his hand on the door, his other hand taking the keys from his pocket.

"Cas, wait," I catches up with him, stops him with a hand on his elbow. "You can't...I am not a guy you should be thinking about. I'm a bad guy OK, you were right about me. I'm white trash, I'm immature, and I have a crappy job, two, crappy jobs..." he tightens his hold, "I've been lying to Sam since our Dad died, and I have...I've hurt him, because I didn't want to tell him the truth."

And Dean remembers, like it's happening in some room in his head right at that minute, the day Sam walked out of the hospital, the day he said he would never, ever trust him again. Because how could he tell him that at the last moment, Dad had looked at him, and told him to tell Sam he was proud of him?

And still, Dean couldn't find the right words to say, 'Dad, me too. I'm into guys, and girls, and...I never told you, I was too scared.'

And then he was dead. And he was proud of Sam.

He's kept that from Sam for years.

"He told me, he was proud, of Sam, before he died." Dean says, "and I still couldn't tell him about me. So he died not knowing. And he'd be ashamed of me, if he knew. And if he knew I never told Sam? He'd probably tell me to get out, and never come back."

Castiel's hand comes up to grip his shoulder, and Dean wants to push him away, because Cas is still looking at him like he's worth it, like he's worth any of this.

"This thing between me and Sam? All the fighting and the time apart? That's me. I did this." He shakes his head, "and tomorrow, I am going to tell him. I am gonna tell him about you, and me and...I'm gonna tell him about Dad."

"What happened with me wasn't your fault," Castiel says softly, "you don't have to tell him that...the rest...yes. Tell him. Tell him your Dad was proud of him, because he deserves to know, and tell him that you like men – be honest with him. He deserves that, and so do you."

"I'm a terrible person," Dean says, and he knows it's true, and that Castiel sees it now, every disgusting truth he's tried to bury out here in his little life.

"I meet terrible people all the time," Castiel says, running his hand from Dean's shoulder to rub the back of his neck. "You're not one of them, you're just scared, you were embarrassed, and scared...and I'm like that all the time." He pulls back and takes a step backwards towards the trailer, holding his hand out, "Now, it's late, and we both need some sleep."

"We're not going to...I can't,"

"No we're not," Castiel agrees, "but I'm not leaving you, not tonight."


	11. Chapter 11

There's this awkward moment when they're standing by the bed, looking at it, and Dean realises that clothes are going to come off.

Then Castiel sighs, and rolls his shoulders, shaking out a cramp from driving, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Dean watches him for probably longer than he should, but hey, that's the whiskey in his system. He allows himself a long, long look as Castiel's fingers work the little plastic buttons on his shirt, as it hangs open, showing off a body that is definitely gym toned. He frowns because he can't imagine his awkward little lawyer at a big, shiny chrome and plastic gym. He can however see Castiel on a treadmill in his apartment, hardwood floors, top of the line running shoes, water bottle on the left, important brief propped up on the coffee table in front. Castiel panting over an important speech as he logs his miles.

Castiel turns and puts the shirt to one side, stays with his back to him while he takes off his pants, sits on the bed to take off his socks.

Dean realises he's still fully clothed, reaches for his own shirt and tugs it off, drops it onto the floor, unbuckles his belt and kicks his pants off. Socks follow suit.

He pulls back the quilt, in its clean sheets, and climbs into bed, leaning against the wall. Castiel is stowing his watch in the pocket of his pants, and when he turns around, they look at each other and Dean realises what a bad idea this was.

Castiel sits halfway up his side of the bed and looks at him.

"I can go back to the couch if you want me to."

Dean shakes his head.

"Come on."

Castiel slips into bed and they lie separately, very careful not to touch.

Dean clicks out the lamp and settles himself, then settles himself again. Castiel shifts a little, and their arms touch. Instantly, Castiel freezes.

"This is relaxing," Dean sighs.

Castiel starts to get up, but Dean reaches over and grabs his arm. He doesn't want him gone, only wants the weirdness, the heaviness to disappear, to dissolve away into the easy warmth of, Christ, only that morning.

Only that would be bad.

His hand loosens on Castiel's arm without his consent, and it runs down to his elbow. How the hell is his skin that soft? He's a guy, he feels like one...but he's about as soft as Dean remembers being at around fourteen – before sunburn, age and working outside had taken their toll.

He strokes Castiel's arm again. "Why the hell are you so prefect?"

Castiel sighs. "I'm not, see," he takes Dean's hand and moves it to his other arm. "Feel that?"

'That' is a long, thin line of raised skin.

"I fell off the high dive when I was seven," Castiel says, "just...lost it and fell, hard. That's from the operation that fixed my arm."

"That's nothing," Dean leans up, brings Castiel's hand down to his knee. There's an uneven lump of cartilage in it that moves with a click that anyone can feel when they touch it. "That's from where I got my foot caught in a snare and fell down, knee hit a rock, fractured in four places. Still hurts when I've been on it too long." Which was pretty much every damn day, but, still, it hurt when he sat at a desk for ten hours too.

Castiel huffs, warm fingers tracing that 'click' back and forth. "Did your Dad take you to hospital?"

"Yeah," Dean sighs, "'bout as fast as he could. I honestly thought he was gonna try and fix it himself but...no, he found me, he picked me up and he took me out to the shed where he'd locked up the car, after we arrived. Drove me and Sam all the way to the hospital, and, as soon as I was fixed up, drove us straight home – before they worked out our insurance was bogus."

Castiel traces the bones in Dean's knee, "I'm glad."

"Yeah, well, more than half the time he did the right thing." Dean's hand catches his and holds it still, "that, is not doing good things for me." He watches Castiel's eyebrows draw together in confusion, takes his hand a little further up his leg, outside the covers, then back down to the bulge there.

"Oh," Castiel's fingers flex, curling over him, "sorry...I didn't mean to..." he takes his hand back reluctantly and sighs. "This is not as easy, as I thought it would be."

"Yeah well, it's not exactly something I'm used to," Dean leans against the headboard and tries to hold on to the fact that Castiel is still Sam's boyfriend. "You know, you're the first guy I've had in this bed with me? I don't bring dudes home."

Castiel shifts a little closer and leans against him, his messy hair tickling Dean's skin. It's both comforting and frustrating, but in the end comforting wins out and he brings Castiel closer.

"Must be lonely, waking up to an empty house."

"Trailer," Dean corrects, "it's not so bad, but...gets to point where you go to sleep alone, wake up to silence and...you start to feel like you're not even really here."

Castiel is silent for a long moment, long enough for Dean to regret opening his stupid mouth.

"I know what you mean," Castiel says quietly, "my apartment is...it's nice, but, if I wasn't at work all the time, it'd be too much, being alone there."

Dean shifts down, so he can lie comfortably with Castiel leaning against his chest.

"But tonight, you've got me."

"Mmm," Castiel says.

Dean tries not to think of the fact that come tomorrow, they'll both be alone again.

It seems like he's only just closed his eyes, but then a hand is shaking his shoulder lightly, and he can hear his name. Turning over, he gets a face full of sunlight and Sam.

"Hey, sorry to wake you up but...I have to get going in a few hours."

Dean blinks, sits up quickly and finds the other side of the bed deserted and cold. Castiel's clothes are gone.

"Castiel made coffee," Sam smiles goofily, "I'll tell him you'll be out in a minute."

Normally Dean would make some comment about Sam not having a hug for him, but knowing what's going to happen in the next few hours, he just nods and waits until Sam is out of the room before grabbing his jeans and a shirt.

In the kitchen he finds Sam at the table, looking smitten and relaxed as Castiel pours coffee and comes to sit down. Dean glances at Cas's face, their eyes meet and he has to look away because if his face is as guilty as he feels? They are never going to get through this.

"Good flight?"

"Long," Sam sighs, "but I got some work done on the way...how're things here?"

Dean shrugs. "Same old. You look good."

He's telling the truth there, Sam's got his casual clothes on, which are every bit as expensive and pressed as his suits must be – polo shirt and chinos that wandered straight out of the Gap.

"Thanks, you too."

That is a lie. Dean is wearing day old jeans and a t-shirt, both of which are crumpled and slightly musty from sitting on the carpet all night. He hasn't showered and his hair is all over the place.

"Have you two got along OK?" Sam asks Castiel.

Castiel nods, and Jesus, Dean hopes that's not his only lying face, because it is awful. You'd think a lawyer would be better at deception, but apparently not.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get out here sooner," Sam says, "this case is driving us all crazy and then...just, stuff got in the way."

"I know how it is," Castiel smiles tensely, "there's always work."

Dean looks at them, imagines them in Cas's apartment, by the treadmill maybe, sitting on some fancy Italian leather couch and drinking wine in the evening, a cashmere blanket over their knees, opera in the stereo. He can see it, like a fucking commercial for Gay White Guys of the Big City.

He glances away and at that moment gets a snatch of some other fantasy night, lying on his bed watching sport center with his head in Cas's lap, while Castiel talks about his latest case, dangling his socked feet over the floor, bowl of slightly burnt popcorn at his elbow.

Then it's gone and Castiel says,

"Sam, would you like to go outside for a while?"

And the atmosphere in the trailer shifts just a little, from awkward family gathering to, the moment before the break up.

"Sure, anything up?"

Castiel set down his coffee cup carefully on the counter. "Just...I want to talk, that's all."

Dean catches the look Sam sends his way, a sharp 'what did you do?' look.

And it stings, but, if Sam knew the half of it? When. When Sam knows everything. He'll probably throw his coffee in Dean's face and leave, never to return. And Dean won't blame him, not even a little bit.


	12. Chapter 12

"What's up?"

Castiel is leaning on the porch rail, looking at the dogs nosing their way around the yard. Sam doesn't know why Dean needs so many dogs, it's not like he has anything worth stealing.

"Lots of dogs," he says, "guess Dean's turned into an animal lover."

"They're strays," Castiel says, "his boss, Ellen, she's a bit of an animal crusader."

"He still working at the diner?"

"And the garage." Castiel sighs and turns to face him, Sam feels his stomach drop.

"What?"

"Sam...I need to...I don't think we should see each other, anymore."

"Why?" he can't believe this is happening, everything had been so great, and when he'd arrived Castiel had looked so happy, rested and relaxed and still all ruffled from sleeping. "Castiel, I thought we were..."

"We were, you...you've been great, and if I could, feel for you the way I should, then this would be perfect but..." he takes a breath, "you're a good friend Sam, I'd trust you with my life...but I think the reason we haven't...the reason I can't, is that I just don't feel that way for you."

He knew. Somewhere underneath all the nights in, the lunches and dinners, he'd known that there was never a spark there. But hey, sparks are for teenagers, they're grown men. So what if his stomach didn't clench when Castiel touched him? He was still happy, they were still happy.

Only, obviously Castiel wasn't.

"Is there uh...is there someone else?"

Castiel glances away, and that's enough. Sam's a good lawyer, and Castiel is not a great liar.

"Oh."

"I haven't...we haven't done, anything. We're not going to. It would be...too inappropriate, but I still want you to know. I want to be honest."

"Is it someone from work?"

"I can't tell you who, please don't make me lie." Castiel says, brows furrowing together, pleading.

Sam sighs, rubs a hand across his face. "Did you know, before this weekend, or was it..." Sam shakes his head, "did Dean say anything, about me, about when we were kids...I mean, did that make you..."

"He told me. But that's not why. And for what it's worth, I think both of you are exceptional, and whatever your life was like, it's turned you into someone incredible. Also, Luc, at your office, has the biggest crush on you, and, he has had it since law school. He told me."

Well, that made a ton of crap make sense. Luc, who always went out for coffee, stayed late, helped him with research...and didn't he look like that guy, from the back of his commercial law class?

"I've...um...I've change my flight to one in a few hours, so...I'm gonna leave." Castiel is saying, "I'm sorry, about this weekend, about all of it."

"It's OK," Sam feels his mouth saying the words, but doesn't know how he managed to form them. "If I'd've shown up on time...well, it's good you got to think and...I hope you do ok Castiel."

"You too."

Castiel goes into the trailer, and for a few minutes nothing happens, Sam looks at the dogs, who are watching him curiously, and he carefully looks over what's just happened. He'll be ok. A few weeks and...give him a few weeks and he'll feel differently. Better.

Castiel comes out of the trailer with his bags, and nods at him as he goes to Dean's truck and climbs in, putting the bags on the passenger seat. Sam sees him as he backs the truck out, the way his face is tight and carefully expressionless. He's upset.

When the truck is no more than a toy on the horizon, Sam goes back inside. Dean is at the table, an open bottle of jack in front of him, a mug in his hand.

"It's noon," Sam says, half-heartedly.

"You want some?"

He nods. Dean gets up and fetches him a mug, pouring a good amount of whiskey into the bottom. "We should probably talk."

"I think I'm all talked out for today," Sam sighs, sitting down. He wants to finish his drink, get in his rental car and go to the nearest hotel. Being here with Dean feels wrong, like sand all over his fresh wound, being ground in. They haven't been close for years, and now he can feel that distance creeping up on them.

"It's about Dad...about the day he died." Dean says, draining his mug and pouring himself another drink. His hand is shaking. Sam looks at him, sees the red rims of Dean's eyes.

"Now's the time you're gonna tell me what he said? Castiel just broke it off."

"I heard...and yeah, might as well tell you now before you leave and don't come back."

Sam grits his teeth. He doesn't need this now.

"Before Dad died, he told me he was proud of you." Dean says, each word coming like a bullet dropping from the edge of the table onto the floor.

Sam is still for a moment, then huffs bitterly. "Bullshit."

"It's true."

"You're only saying that because you feel sorry for me. I get it. But don't, OK, just don't."

"He told me he was proud, proud that you'd told him, that you could be honest with him."

Dean's face is blank, there's no sign of a lie there. Dean's not liar in the family, he could never get Sam to believe the Christmas presents, the birthday gifts, the cough medicine and the new clothes were from Dad. Sam always knew.

"He...he really said that?"

Dean nods.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Anger is building slowly in his gut, pushing aside the loss.

"Because..." Dean drains his mug. "Because by then I'd been..." he swallows, "fucking, guys, since high school. And...I'd never told him. I couldn't even tell him then."

Sam is frozen. This is like walking in on your best friend zipping up their human skin suit. Dean is straight. He's the straightest guy Sam knows, he drinks beer, watches sports, leaves his laundry all over the floor, and he likes women, likes them more than all the other things combined, can barely keep his eyes off of tits and ass long enough to school idiots at poker or pool.

"I didn't tell you because, I was ashamed, angry at myself for not telling him. Because it was too late, and he was dead, and he was proud of you...not me."

They're silent, Dean breathing like he's just run a marathon, eyes fixed on Sam. Sam looks straight back at him, trying to match up what he knows against what he thought he knew.

"C'mon Sam...say something. Hit me or...c'mon, just hit me."

Sam pushes back his chair, stands and looks down at his older brother. He can feel all of the memories inside of him, like flies trying to get out. Dean playing tag, Dean bringing him a Christmas candy bar wrapped in newspaper, Dean stealing him his first condoms, his first beer. Dean at the hospital, tired and drained. Dean at the funeral in his suit, the way he'd crumpled as soon as they were alone at the grave.

He pushes open the door and he's outside, across the porch, opening his car.

In the car, key into the ignition, pulling out of the yard.

And as he passes the trailer, he can see Dean still at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel closes the door of his apartment, leans against it, his bags at his feet.

"Home sweet home," he mutters, noticing that his cleaning lady has been since he was here last. There's no dust, no closed up room smell. It's all perfect, like he left five minutes ago to go get milk. If he wasn't wearing a crumpled shirt that smelt like Dean he might find himself wondering if that last week even happened.

There's a bottle of vodka in his refrigerator. The good stuff, triple filtered, frosted glass, he takes it with him to his favourite spot by the window, drinks about thirty dollars worth straight from the bottle. His bags remain packed, and he doesn't check his work emails, just watches the traffic and the light pollution that hides all but the brightest stars.

He wonders how Sam took it, whether Dean even told him. Of course he knows by now that if Dean says he's going to do something, he does. But he has no right to Sam's life now, or Dean's. He'll never know what happened between them. Never see if they managed to grow close again.

He falls asleep in that chair, exhausted from the flight and the drive and the taxi ride home. When he wakes up he only has enough time to shower and shove on a suit before he's needed at the office.

Work has always been a good way to keep himself occupied. He doesn't enjoy it – reading depositions from rapists, defending murderers in court, but sometimes it's worth it, when he gets an innocent person to defend, or at any rate, someone less guilty than they are charged with being.

His weeks of hard work pay off, the closeted kid is cleared of all charges, and Castiel allows himself a glass of champagne at the office with his other public defenders in celebration. It's the cheap stuff, and it's in a paper cup in an office strewn with paperwork and smelling of cheap bleach, but it's still something to savour.

A few weeks after he returns from Dean's trailer, he sees a story about Sam in the newspaper. He won his big case too. The photograph makes him look satisfied, but not happy, and Castiel hopes that it's not him that put that look on Sam's face. A couple of times he almost calls him, to ask him how things are with Dean, with work, but he knows that Sam wouldn't appreciate it.

New cases come in, Castiel works all the hours he can, barely sees his apartment but for showers and sleep. Occasionally he manages a half hour or so on his treadmill, looking out at the city, a brief propped up in front of him, but mostly he relies on the long days and little food to keep him in shape. Pretzels, coffee and boxed salad is about all he can stomach from the café at work.

A year after his break up with Sam, they meet at a dinner for attorneys in the city. They exchange hellos, and Sam asks Castiel how he's been. Castiel tells him about a case he's working on, a single mother charged with shoplifting canned macaroni and cheese. He asks how Sam is, and Sam says he's fine. There's a lull, then Sam adds,

"Dean's alright."

"Oh...good." Castiel can feel himself flushing.

"We're not really...I mean, we're talking much. But he said he was doing OK." Sam consults his champagne glass for a second. "It was him wasn't it, the other guy?"

Castiel nods.

"I figured, but you said you guys didn't..."

"We didn't. I think he was worried about you, what it might do. And I don't cheat."

"So, he told you about what happened, with Dad?"

Again, Castiel nods, feeling the air thickening around them. "He was really upset over it."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, I bet," as he turns, Castiel catches his arm. "Are you still angry with him?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"Probably. But then, I'm not that close to my brothers. I don't need them that much."

Sam's face loses its hardness and Castiel can see the loss there. "Don't blame us on him. Please."

Sam walks away, and Castiel doesn't know if he's changed anything, but he tried. He tries to tell himself that's enough, but he doesn't quite believe it.

He spends some quality time with his vodka on that particular evening.

At Christmas he gets a card from Ash and Garth at the bar, and one signed by Ellen. He has no idea how they got his address, but as they come to the office, not his apartment, he guesses they looked him up online. He puts them on his desk next to his phone. He gets a Christmas email from Sam, a little log cabin ecard – and he hopes it means that Sam is going up to see Dean for the holidays.

No word from Dean, but then, that's what they agreed.

On Christmas day, what with his brothers being scattered across the globe, Castiel goes into work to do paperwork and pretend that it's any other Wednesday. At lunch he goes out to where that Satanist paradise of holiday opening hours, Starbucks, can provide him with coffee. On his way back to the office he bumps into someone and spills it all down his shirt.

Walking through the city with cooling coffee on his shirt and suit leaves him a bad mood, as does taking the stairs up to his apartment because the elevator is out of service again. But when he sees who's waiting at his front door, he pauses and feels his mood lift a little.

"Hey," Gabriel tries to hold the squirming retriever puppy still, while it fights the big red bow tied around its neck. "You know where my little brother lives? I've almost forgotten what he looks like."

The puppy chews up the arm of his couch, and Gabriel gets chocolate syrup over the other arm, but it's still a pretty nice way to spend Christmas. They get very drunk and watch pixar films at Gabriel's insistence, and Castiel wakes up on Boxing Day with glasses drawn on in marker, and pancakes cooking on the stove.

Gabriel is still there at New Years, and they go to a party at the house of an artist friend of his. At midnight an Asian supermodel kisses him and Castiel wakes up the next morning in a pile of coats with a marker pen goatee, wearing a bra over his shirt. What happened that night is a mystery, even Gabriel didn't manage to get photographic evidence.

It's not until February that Castiel starts to feel lonely again, and he takes two vacation days to avoid the office on valentine's day, when flowers, chocolates and Mylar balloons start showing up. He doesn't care about it really, but it's the pity of his co-workers that gets to him.

That night he gets most of the way through a bottle by himself, and the loud knocking on his door the next morning is enough to have him stumbling through the apartment, complaining bitterly. He yanks the door open and snarls "Do you have any idea what the fucking time is?"

And Dean blinks and says, "Eleven-thirty."

After that they just look at each other, and Castiel is too surprised to be embarrassed that he's in a pair of sleeping pants that Gabriel left behind, which have reindeer on them, and Dean is in an expensive suit and carrying a leather satchel that probably cost more than his couch.

"Dean," Castiel says, eventually, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for an apartment...Sam said he'd set up a viewing here." Dean frowns, "are you hungover?"

"No questions," Castiel holds up a hand, "Excuse me,"

He makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, but only just. As he washes out his mouth and curses himself for being an utter idiot, and the most unattractive person on the planet, he hears Dean call from the kitchen,

"I'm making toast, hope that's OK...yours is gonna be dry. Because you know, you're apparently a frat boy. Jesus fuck, this kitchen is a disaster."

Castiel rests his head on the cool mirror and tries to work out if he's smiling or working up to crying, because Dean's in his kitchen, mocking him, and he's been sick and he's wearing someone else's pyjamas, and it's the best day he's had in a year.


	14. Chapter 14

When Castiel emerges from the bathroom, Dean feels his stomach do that twisty, knotty thing it's only ever done for Cas. He looks so tired and wrung out, the way Dean's been feeling, mostly because the holidays suck, even if Sam is talking to him again. Then there's all the work hours and...he's up to his neck in take home assignments and reconfigurations.

The fact that he loves every minute of it, that's beside the point.

"Toast," he slides the plate across the kitchen island. He always knew Castiel would have a kitchen island.

Castiel sits, watching him as he nibbles the toast. "Why are you in the city?"

Dean goes back to doing dishes. "Do you have a cleaning lady? Some of this stuff is growing new life."

"Dean?"

"I work in the city Cas."

He glances over just in time to catch Castiel's frown. "Since when?"

"Since just before Christmas...I took a job with an engineering firm here, to be nearer Sam and...you know, just to be in the city."

"You said you hated that work."

He stacks the last clean plate and turns around. "I hated the way it made me think. Turns out Sam was right, I am tool with a chip on my shoulder...you were right too."

"About?"

"About me being a white trash drunk...doesn't matter how smart I know I am, if I want to be that guy, the smart guy, I can't be living in a trailer with a hundred dogs. And I didn't want to. I wanted to be here."

They look at each other, and Dean relearns the tiny details of Castiel that have somehow worn off of his memories, the way he tilts his head a little when he thinks, the spider lines around his eyes when they're creased up in consideration, his nervous, elegant hands.

"Dean."

"Cas."

They speak at the same time, and Castiel blinks, then motions for him to go first, if he wants.

"It's been a year and I haven't heard from you, which was the deal, you know? So that's fine. But, I'm ok with Sam now, or, getting to be ok. I'm working in the city again and I thought...maybe you'd moved on and so I didn't call. I didn't want to make things hard. Then Sam says he's got an apartment for me to view, so I came here, and it's your place, only you weren't expecting me so...if you want me to leave...I can."

"No!" Castiel blushes, sits himself back down. "I mean, no, you don't have to go."

His grin slips out of his control. "You want me here?"

"I want you here." Castiel sighs and pushes the toast away. "You and Sam are you..."

"He's talking to me, that's new," Dean taps his fingers on the counter, "we had Christmas together with..."

"I know he has a new partner. She's...very nice."

Dean looks like he doesn't believe him. "Must be hard."

"It's a little weird. After he was with me, I thought maybe I turned him off of men."

"Maybe it's a phase," Dean shrugs, "Like I have any right trying to work him out. I don't even know what I am."

"You're wearing a suit."

Dean let his smile return. "Yes I am."

"And I am a mess."

"You're a cute mess."

"Liar." Castiel's eyes narrow, but his mouth remains playful.

"Kitchen's clean anyway so..." he watches Castiel, trying to work out what he wants. Because, as confused as Dean's been over the last year, he's pretty damn sure of what he wants now. "Want to...uh..."

Castiel gets up and rounds the counter, keeping a watchful eye on him. "To..."

"To..." Dean tilts his head and glances at the spick and span kitchen island. "...make a mess."

Castiel slides between him and the counter hops up on to its marble surface easily, hands slipping down to the waistband of those god-awful pyjamas pants.

"What happened to being shy?"

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "I kissed a supermodel."

"Really?"

"Mmmhmm," Castiel smiles, and Dean remembers that smile, that cat-smile. "I have game."

"Oh yeah you do."

Dean's still smothering a laugh at Castiel's indignant yell as he pulls his hips off the counter and yanks the pyjamas off.

Dean's had a lot of sex in his life, with women, with dudes. With two of one, and one of the other or vice versa, he's had a lot of stuff done to him, and done a lot of stuff, and all of it was pretty fantastic, some of it was downright mythical – but one of his top ten spots is still occupied by a very long, warm make out on the kitchen floor of a New York loft, with a wriggling, naked Castiel, followed by a viciously hot shower and a slow, stately fuck on the chair by the window.

While Castiel dozes, head in the curve of Dean's shoulder, Dean hears his cell phone going, then go quiet. It's Sam's ringtone. He has no idea why Sam sent him to see Castiel, he hasn't mentioned him in a year, hell, neither of them have. So what if Dean bought a hand tooled leather wallet for an ipad he doesn't own, and wrapped it with his other Christmas gifts before consigning it to the back of his wardrobe. He was having a chic moment, like when he buys flowers for Ellen on her birthday, it's just something that happens.

But God knows, he hasn't felt this good in years. Part of it's the naked guy slowly stirring in his lap, signalling he's ready for round two, and maybe most of it is that he can enjoy this now, because Sam knows. Sam knows everything.

Maybe it's because Castiel's not hiding away from him.

Maybe it's also a little because he's ticklish, and Dean's never going to hear enough of that laugh.


End file.
